


Through His Eyes

by kalewrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Adult Content, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon-Typical Violence, Dry Humping, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Flashbacks, Forgiving Bucky is hard, Getting over shit it hard, Guilt, Mentions of Blood, Sexual Content, confronting a difficult past, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-01-26 21:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12566920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalewrites/pseuds/kalewrites
Summary: ‘Sometimes it’s not the butterflies that tell you you’re in love, but the pain’Bucky arrives at the compound to start afresh but you and him have a somewhat colorful past. Colorful being that you met him once before as The Winter Soldier and it did not go well. New beginnings, yeah? If you can learn to forgive.





	1. Chapter 1

You scoop handfuls of water and splash your face, watching in the mirror as fat droplets run down and drip off your chin. Lingering over your reflection, taking stock of the only slightly repressed panic in your eyes and sickly, greyish tinge your skin has taken. 

 

_ You can do this. This is nothing. _

 

You repeat it in your head like a mantra, looping it round until the words are a tangled mess in your mind. You’re hollowed out, an empty  _ nothing  _ wearing a human looking shell, everything held together with safety pins and duct tape. Eventually you dry your face off with a towel and head back into your room to finish getting dressed. 

 

Dark, hollow eyes haunt the edges of your thoughts. You unconsciously run your fingers over the scar on your forearm, using the hard, angry ridges to remind yourself you had been through worse, survived worse. You pull a hoodie on, tug the sleeves down over the scars down past your fingers, wrapping yourself in it like armor. 

 

Steeling yourself, you heave a few deep breaths before gripping the door handle, hand slipping a little as the cold sweat slides against the metal. 

 

_ He can't hurt you anymore.  You can do this. _

 

You force yourself to turn the handle and push yourself through the door, the last barrier between you are your once captor. 

 

Your feet carry you automatically, the  _ clip _ clop sounds of your unhurried steps drowned out by the thudding heartbeats that throb like bass notes and push behind your eyes. Rounding the corner into the large space of the lounge, you screech to halt at the sight of Steve with his back to you. Or perhaps less so at Steve and more so at the person he's talking to.  _ Him _ . He's tense, you know that instantly, his eyes dart around constantly mapping his surroundings. He's the first to notice you, his eyes doing a sweep of the room whilst Steve explains the layout of the building, until the finally land on you. There's a quiver of surprise on his face before the cool, detached mask slips in place and it's oddly comforting. Comforting to know this affects him in ways too, that you're not the only one on shaky ground, feeling like your insides are being torn from you, frantic hands shoving handfuls back inside and losing bits of you each time, each handful a little less than before. 

 

Wanda steps into your line of vision, breaking the weirdly hypnotic stare.

 

“ Păsărică , you don't have to do this right now. I can feel your pain screaming at me. You're not ready. “

 

“I have to Wanda, I'll never be ready.”

  
  


_ He can't hurt you anymore.  You can do this. _

 

You push past her and make your way to Steve, who's turned towards you, the tension in the room ratcheting up a few notches clearly caught his attention. He gives you a tentative smile, a warm hand wrapping round your wrist as you near him in an attempt to reassure you. The solid feel of his hand grounds you a little, gives you more focus as you come to a halt beside him, eyes everywhere but  _ him _ .

 

“I'm glad you came.” He murmurs softly, although you don't doubt  _ he _ heard, “Y/N, this is Bucky. Bucky, Y/N.” 

 

He eyes you warily before shifting forward to offer his hand, the movement makes you flinch back a little; your nerve endings fraught and tense. He pulls his hand back like you scalded him, the beginnings of panic working its way onto his face. He eyes dart between you and Steve as the latter hooks an arm round your shoulders and gives a little squeeze. He knows better than to make it ‘a thing’ so you're glad when he simply rambles on about menial things, filling the chasm of silence between you and Bucky. You shift back and forth, nervous energy settling over your bones you know you'll have to work out of you later. 

 

Bucky clears his throat, catching your eye in the process. They lock in place, frozen in shock and just a little curiosity, his haunting grey eyes so full of pain it knocks the wind out of you. Flashes of those same eyes, empty eyes staring right through you as he used your body for his sick, twisted canvas brings the undercurrent of panic to the surface. Blood rushes to your ears, someone's screaming, except they’re not and it's just your own voice you can hear in your head, the memories sloshing around making your tongue feel thick and fuzzy. 

 

You stumble back, clasping at your throat, your tongues expanded the width of you, no air getting into your lungs. Blackness creeps into the edges of your vision and then Wanda’s there, gripping your face in her hands and murmuring words you can’t hear. She closes her eyes and then there's red everywhere, like its pouring into your eye sockets and mouth, a calmness fights its way over the panic, pushing its way through each layer until it's rooted to your marrow. You take deep shuddering breaths as the blackness receeds. 

 

“It is okay  Păsărică, I have you. I’m here. You are safe.” Wanda's whispering to you over and over, eyes locked with yours until you blink at her and finally focus. 

 

You focus on her, watching as the red glow in her eyes fades to brown, her grip on your face loosens and eventually falls away. 

 

“I’m good. I’m okay. Thank you, Wanda.” She eyes you warily but nods anyway. 

 

Your eyes dart around the room and land on Steve's back, is that- yeah, he’s holding Bucky back who’s straining towards you, eyes wild and full of  _ something _ . Steve's murmuring in his ear, talking him down from whatever ledge he was just on. Something Steve says hits home and Bucky’s eyes finally tear from you and to Steve, he nods, just once, before turning heel and disappearing down the hall. Something inside you relaxes a little at the sound of his retreating footsteps then Steve’s beside you, pulling you to him in a bone-crushing hug.

 

“Steve, shit- not so tight.” Your voice is muffled against his chest.

 

“Sorry, sorry.” He pulls back to look at you, “Are you okay? I’m so sorry Y/N, I shouldn't have made you do that. I just thought- never mind.” He continues fussing over you, patting your cheek, rubbing your arms till you physically restrain him.

 

“Steve! I’m okay, just...chill, yeah?” You pull back so you can meet his eyes, “It was a panic attack, bound to happen at some point, may as well have been now. Like a band aid- rip it right off, remember?” You nod at him, the movement making you a little dizzy, the after effects of the attack still running through you.

 

He makes a noncommittal noise, halfway between a groan and a sigh, “I’m still sorry.”

 

Of course he is. Steve Rogers, Mr Responsibility. He blames himself. Why bother blaming the man who inflicted the damage, his best pal Bucky, or better yet, Hydra themselves. Oh no, this is  _ Steve’s _ fault. 

 

“You hungry?” He asks.

 

“I could eat.” You muster a smile for him, looping an arm through his and letting him lead you away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unwelcome visitors and unwelcome dreams.

 

The next hour is spent eating and laughing with Steve, some of the tension ebbing away whilst he recounted all the ways Sam got rejected when they were at Tony’s party a few days before. Poor guy unintentionally hit on some guys wife and it did not go well. After clearing away the plates and containers, Steve hugs you again and decides to head off to bed.

 

“Y/N...I just-” Steve stops at the door, suddenly serious again, “You know it wasn’t him right? Not really?”

 

You hesitate a little, testing out the weight of it, caught between wanting to please him and not wanting to like. Was it something you had accepted. “I know Steve.”  _ Maybe. Did it matter? _

 

“It haunts him, you know? Especially at night.” He smiles wearily, the strain of today written all over his face for the first time, leaves you to feel the weight of his words. 

 

It wasn't something you had considered, not fundamentally. Maybe you’d thought he somehow moved on, never dwelled on the things he done. Maybe you simply didn't care, too caught up in how it affected you and his other victims, but still,  _ now  _ you were thinking. Conflicting emotions wrapping around your heart, crudely cut joy, guilt, pain and maybe a little...empathy. Wrapping tighter and tighter till you weren't sure which was strongest. 

 

_ Shit _ . 

 

\----------

 

It’s long past midnight and you're still awake, lying in your bed staring up the ceiling like it contains the answers to all of life's problems, the answers to nothing and something, and everything in between. Today had been a lot to process, seeing Bucky for the first time since...well, then, seeing not the soldier but the man. Seems he was all duct tape and glue like you, the brutal reality a stark contrast to the man you imagined, a far cry from the dead eyes and blank stares of before. Steve’s words loop around, caught between memories and nightmares and a new feeling that's here, scratching at the surface of your fortified heart. 

 

Guilt. 

 

That’s the point isn't it? You're supposed to forgive him now, supposed to understand the why and forget the how. Logical, practical...human. If only it were that simple. 

 

_ Now, what do I do with this? _

 

“Shit.” Muffled and low, a voice sounds outside your door. Your hands automatically reach for you gun, tucked under your pillow and wedged between the mattress and bed frame. Bob. Most reliable friend you’d ever had. 

 

There’s someone there, hovering outside your door...are they pacing? Yep, distinct sound of threads being worn away and thoughts turning over. Less concerned for your safety and more curious and sort of annoyed now, you hoist yourself into a sitting position, roll your neck a few times, muscles gone stiff at the strenuous ceiling staring and finally find your feet. You swing the door open in one fast, fluid motion stunning your guest and in turn yourself. 

 

Bucky. 

 

Thoughts liquify, stunned to the point you forget to be afraid, that you should be. 

 

“Shit, did I wake you?” He asks, voice ragged and guilty heavy, “I just- I had to say… I shouldn’t have come here. This was fucking  _ selfish _ .” He runs a heavy hand down his face, gripping at his jaw so hard it had to hurt. 

 

You're still standing there, slack jawed and blinking stupidly, it would be funny if you could muster enough coherence to recognise it but he doesn’t seem to notice, or mind, and you can tell he’s mentally berating himself. His eyes say much more than he seems to be managing with his mouth. He steps towards you and the motion jolts you, makes you take an involuntary step back but finally clearing the fog a little. 

 

Noting your movement he stills, lowers his hands to his side and looks at you right in the eye for the second time today, lets you see the pure agony in them, “I just had to say it, Y/N, I’m so sorry for what I... if I could take it all back I would. I had to at least say it.” He holds your gaze a second longer before turning and disappearing down the hall. You watch him retreat, wondering how you got to the point where you might even feel sorry for him? Like a smidge. 

 

Despite that, it's a while before your breathing returns to normal, before you heart stops trying to escape from your chest. It takes even longer for the tears to dry.  

 

\-----------

 

“You look like shit.” You do, it's no surprise really that Sam would point it out after 0.5 of a second. Shithead. 

 

“Bite me, Birdboy.” You flick a piece of cereal at him, dry since there was no milk. Tony was gonna be pissed.

 

“Out of milk again?” You nod, tipping the rest of the bowl into your mouth, “Momma Stark is gonna lose his shit.” 

 

“I have a plammphf…” You say around the mouthful of cereal earning you a look. 

 

“You’re disgusting.” Sam says, prompting you to show him the entire contents of you mouth as punishment. He wanted disgusting after all, “God, you’ve been hanging around why guys too much.” You shrug, he’s probably right, and finish your mouthful.

 

“Anyways, I have a plan.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yup. I don't plan on being here when Mrs Doubtfire wakes up.”

 

“Not much of a plan is it?”

 

“All I got dude.” He rolls his eyes and flops into the chair next to you, his own bowl of dry cereal in his hand. 

 

“Hey.” He says, softer this time, leans in a little “you good?”

 

“Yeah, I’m good Sam. Promise.” 

 

Sam hangs around most of the day, you suspect he’s keeping an eye on you but say nothing, honestly just grateful for the company. You eat, you watch movies, all in it's a good day. Yet, you can’t stop glancing at the door, wondering if he’ll appear, wondering what you’ll do. Decisions, reactions. 

 

“Hey kid, you doing okay?” Sam asks, nods towards the door like he’s seen every glance.

 

You sigh, “Yeah, I am. I’m trying to be.” He raises his eyebrows at this, silently questioning, “I want to get passed this, forgive and forget.”

 

“Oh, yeah? For Steve or for you?” He tries to stay neutral, but you hear it anyway. 

 

“Both, I guess?” You reply, chewing on your bottom lip, “I want to, just, not sure if I can.”

 

“You can, if that’s what you want. Just gonna take some time, kid. You deserve time.”

 

Around 5pm, Sam gets called out on a last minute mission, nothing too drastic but Redwing was needed and so Sam goes too. You stay in the lounge, adamant you can finish the full season of Stranger Things before you go to bed and somewhere along the way you fall asleep. 

 

_ Dead eyes. Dead eyes. _

 

_ The smell of blood is overwhelming, blood and sweat, stuck to you, drowning you. He’s here, like always, walking closer and closer. You blink a few times, trying to clear the haze, trying to see his face but it’s blurry. It’s never blurry.  _

 

_ The knife is clear.  _

 

_ He's in front of you now, face blurry except those dead eyes, drawing up his full size as he begins his slow patterns on your arm, starts at the bottom, twists and turns the blade as your scream in agony, the sounds of knife tearing flesh somehow louder. He stops, you look. A. The screaming starts again. And again.  _

 

“Y/N, Y/N wake up, it’s a dream.” 

 

You jerk away from the cold touch on your arm, press yourself back against the couch like you can disappear into it. Figures it would be him, kneeling on the floor in front of you. 

 

“M’sorry. Seemed like you should wake up.” Bucky says, eyeing you warily and sitting back on his haunches, maybe making himself a little smaller. You say nothing, mind still recovering from the nightmare and struggling to reconcile that Bucky with this one, the one with kind eyes and not dead.

 

“You said my name.” He whispers, like he wants to know but want’s to not.

 

“Yeah well, you had a starring role.” You say back, voice breaking a little at the end and putting a little heat in the tone.

 

He nods again, face aiming for detached and falling somewhere short in agony. Climbs to his feet, and goes to leave, turns a little ways back and stills, “You star in mines too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress is progress, no matter how small.

 

“So, which colour?” Wanda asks, two lipsticks in her hand, a cherry red and almond nude. 

 

“That one.” You say, pointing at the red, “Suits your skin tone better.” She flashes you a smile and turns, adding the lipstick to her basket and dragging you along to an infinite array of mascaras. You sort through and help her pick a mirade of other items, grateful for the distraction if nothing else. 

 

Passing the perfume, you stop at one bottle in particular, drawn to it in a way you can't explain. It's a store brand, displayed in a delicate crystal-like bottle, written in calligraphic font on the label is your reason for the pull.  _ Hope _ . It feels like a sign, from who you're not sure but you pick it up anyway, testing it in your wrist and feel your stomach soar when it smells divine. Yep, a sign. 

 

“You ready?” Wanda asks, tilting her head towards the checkout, “Oh, that looks interesting?” 

 

“Yeah?” You offer her your wrist, smiling when she nods and declares it exactly what you need, propelling you both to the checkout before you even think to consider it. 

 

Later, after another few hours of reminding Wanda what it’s like to be normal for a while, you settle your purchases in the back seat of your car, feeling lighter than you had in days, weeks even. Wanda fills the space with chatter, laughs and just a general niceness that only she can do and it  _ is  _ nice, the feeling of being with a friend, of existing in a moment untouched by anything else. It’s hard to remember that moments like this are part of your life now. The sun’s gone down a while, the sky’s dark and calm, the air has that fresh feeling when the temperature dips a little that reminds you how it's preparing for autumn. 

 

“I spoke to him.” Wanda says, no tone one way or the other, just stating a fact like you might say it’s cold outside. It’s how it is between you both, no fanciness, no lies. 

 

“Oh? How was it?” You ask, curious what she has to say because surely she has something. 

 

“He’s not what I expected.” 

 

“Not the homicidal maniac from my dreams, you mean?” You say, throwing a smirk her way. Well, you try. Points for trying. 

 

“Well, no.” She rolls her eyes then gives you a look, “He's more...broken.”

 

“Well then, he’s in good company.” You half say, sort of whisper, fingers tightening on the wheel unconsciously even though your brain  _ knows  _ Wanda, knows she’s on your side regardless. If there’s sides to be had, that is. Which there isn’t. Right?

 

“Well, that is true.” She leans over and squeezes your leg, holds it for a second and then changes the subject, knowing you heard what she needed you to, and her realising you knew the same. He wasn’t what you had expected either. 

 

\--------------

 

_ Dead eyes. Dead eyes. _

 

_ Always the dead eyes. The noise of metal on rock is louder than it should be, scraping back and forth, over and over. He’s there, of course he’s there, pacing and waiting. He steps into the light, “I’m sorry” he mouths, muffled and muted, his mouth forming half shapes against the blurriness. _

 

_ You look down at your arm, the blood, the metal. R. The next letter.  _

 

_ The screaming starts again.  _

 

6.45am. Urgh. The nightmare woke you,  _ again _ . Your t-shirt clings to you, damp with cold sweat bordering on suffocating. It takes about 15 minutes to decide that sleep has eluded for the day, the dream too fresh in your mind to let go, and another 15 minutes to shower and make your way to the kitchen for coffee. 

 

Perched on the counter, swinging your legs over the edge, you inhale the sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans. It's the good stuff, ya know, top shelf brew thanks to Tony’s expensive taste. Although he does complain about you ruining his good coffee by turning it into sludge, and well, he has a point you think as you swirl your mug, watching the contents slosh together a little too thickly. A necessity. 

 

You enjoy this, the time before morning is really morning, when everything's quiet but filled with a nervous energy of the day that's to come. Anticipation. The kind of moments when you really get to know someone, small smiles and shoulder bumps in the hours before sense is sensible again. It’s these moments you had spent getting to know Steve in the beginning, neither of you big on sleep and even worse on sharing, but you did, eventually. So did he. That’s why it isn't that surprising when you hear him approach, hear his quiet laughter as he rounds the corner into the kitchen, smile only widening when he sees you there on the counter clutching your mug like it's made of the goldest gold. You are surprised, however, by his companion, the other half of his smile, blindingly so. Okay, fine, not blinding at all but it sure feels that way, Bucky and Steve sharing an easy moment of laughter whilst you run on little sleep thanks to the plaguing nightmares. It feels cruel, even if it’s not. You know it's not, but it still feels like a sucker punch. 

 

“Hey, Good Morning.” Steve says, squeezing your shoulder in greeting and not so subtly glancing between you and Bucky. He’s worried, even if he’s pretending he’s not. “Can I?” He tips his mug in coffee pots direction and you automatically reach for it, pouring it in his mug and desperately trying to stop your hand from shaking. He smiles in thanks, goes to step away and notices the stare. You're staring at Bucky, watching him shift uncomfortably back and forth as he clutches his own mug, he’s looking everywhere but you and you have no idea how to handle it. You don’t want to give him coffee, why should he get laughter and coffee in the same day? You sure as hell don’t. Steve slips his hand over yours, silently asking to take it from you, probably afraid you're about to throw it at Bucky given the blankness of your face. You relinquish it to him, let him fill Bucky’s mug and fill the space between with harmless noise and chatter. 

 

“See ya later, Stevie.” You say, already half out the door, Steve’s sad eyes following you down the hall. 

 

You stay in your room for the rest of the day, Wanda bringing by food at around 6pm, sitting with you whilst you watch some mindless TV. She says nothing, knows how you feel and knows what you need. She’s pretty fucking great, she is. She leaves sometime around midnight, or later, you stopped keeping track of time after the 7th episode of Brooklyn Nine Nine and the 3rd time Netflix shames you by asking “Are you still watching?”. Fuck you, Mr Netflix man, because surely a guy came up with that taunting message. You lie awake a while, probably a little scared to allow yourself to fully drift off knowing what awaits you on the other side. You can already taste the metallic on your tongue. 

 

_ The screaming starts _

 

You will your mind blank, think other thoughts in the hopes of drowning it out, but then, how are you thinking in your dreams? Thinking doesn’t happen in dreams. 

 

You're awake. The screaming is real. Your up and out of bed before you fully process what that means, bare feet pounding down the corridor and towards the screams, the horror in them driving a panic into your chest. You reach the room, the door is the last barrier before whatever lies behind and you realise how rash you had been, how unprepared for whatever fight is behind it as you stand there in flimsy PJ’s and utterly weaponless. Too late to back out now, you think as the screams start again. He's being tortured, Steve? Sam? You slip the door open a softly as you can, hoping to gain the advantage by taking stock of them first. The room is empty and dark, no attackers, no torture, nothing. That's when you see him,  _ Bucky _ , huddled on the floor, his blanket twisted around him as he thrashes in pain. You recognise it now, the familiarity of the event. 

 

He’s dreaming. 

 

The thought startles you so much you just stand there, feet rooted to the spot. He moans again, lower this time but no less agonising than the screams. He sounds like he’s being burned alive. The feeling is there, that knowing feeling, the shared horror that you can’t help but pity. You  _ know  _ this pain.  He’s muttering now, whispered apologies and pleading pain.  _ SorrySorrySorryPlease.  _ The dreams aren’t real but the pain is, raw and bubbling over like a physical thing, filling up all the space in the room. You hands are shaking again, but with a need to hold, a need to comfort that's utterly out of place but not entirely unwelcome. Still, your frozen.

Steve appears, barrels past you to Bucky, whispers gentle words and struggles till he's awake but not before one last whisper, one last plead.  _ Sorry, Y/N. _

 

You don’t wait to see his eyes, you already know what they’ll look like. 

 

\------------

 

The next morning when you're in the kitchen and they appear you don’t leave right away. Steve offers his mug and you pour, like you always do. Bucky stays back, nervous energy replaced by defeat. You step forward, earning a look and slowly, gently, fill his mug too. He stays deathly still, white knuckling the mug and you wonder mindlessly if it will shatter, his too strong fingers that you know only so well. He blinks a few times then looks at you, the greyest of greys today and the softest hint of a smile on his face, “Thank you.” 

 

You nod, already pushed the boundaries of your limits for the day and you think he understands that. Steve certainly does, he’s literally a feet taller with gratefulness. 

 

Perhaps there’s  _ hope  _ for you after all.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are enjoying! I know it's a slow paced story at the moment, but I think it'll be worth it. I'm trying not to hurry the healing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve shows you a little perspective

After the coffee miracle, as you have taken to calling it, they are there most mornings. Sometimes you pour, sometimes it’s Steve, sometimes you retreat quietly into your corner to read a book or count your heartbeats, sometimes Steve joins you. Like joint custody. 

 

It’s never Bucky who pours the coffee. Nope, he stands back a ways, watching but not pressing, but you see him notice the way your hands still shake for the first few minutes he’s there or how you can’t help but glance up from that book just to see where he is in the room. There’s no hiding it and honestly, there’s still bits of you that want him to see it. Baby steps.

 

Today is a Steve day, and as a double bonus it’s also turned into a Steve cuddle day. Bucky left after his morning coffee, quiet whispers between him and Steve before he glances over at you on his way out. Steve and you are on opposite ends of the couch but heads meeting in the middle, sharing the same pillow space. It’s almost like before, almost. 

 

You can’t see him, he can’t see you and you think perhaps that’s planned when he pierces the quiet, “Y/N?” 

 

“Yeah, Stevie?” The air has changed and you know he’s going to go there. 

 

“I uh, how are you doing? Really.” Oh Steve. Forever the worrier, and forever the good guy. You hear it all at once in his voice, imagine how stretched he’s been feeling trying to split himself between you and Bucky. Wanting to help his friend and also wanting to help you. 

 

“Steve…” You begin, but then don’t really know how to finish. It’s a simple question and yet so utterly unsimple you lose your way in your own thoughts. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’m getting there, I think? I’m trying.”

 

“Yeah, I see that. We all do. Even Bucky.” He throws on that last part like it means something. It does, you're just not sure what. 

 

“I want to be ok, ya know? I will be.”  _ Probably _ . 

 

“You know I’m here for you, right? If it’s ever too much, you just gotta say…” He speaks quietly, but it's all there in his tone. He means it. Your heart grows three extra sizes for him, for what he’s always willing to do for you. 

 

“I know, Steve.” You slip your hand up to find his, threading your fingers and giving a squeeze. Easy silence slips back, 5 minutes, maybe 10. 

 

“Do you wanna do anything today?” Steve asks, lifting himself up onto his forearm to get a look at your over Mount Pillow. 

 

“Uh, not sure. You got something in mind?” 

 

“I have an idea. Do you trust me?” 

 

\-------

 

It’s colder than you prepared for today, the wind slaps at your face as you stand outside the building, Steve by your side. You pull your jacket tighter, trying to contain any heat you can and notice that, maybe, it’s not only the cold that's making you shake. 

 

“We don’t have to. If it’s too much.” Steve offers, his face the mask of concern so often worn around you these days. It’s too much, he’s too much. You want to do this for him but also for you. 

 

“No, this is fine. I want to go in.” You insist, linking an arm with his and start towards the entrance. Jelly legs getting a little firmer with each step. You are fucking stronger than this, god dammit. A survivor of worse.  

 

The museum is busier than you expect, families and the likes milling around unaware the subject of the exhibit is here in the flesh, hiding under his baseball cap like it has magical powers. And it does, you suppose, since there’s been no stares or questions, no hugs or selfies from well meaning intruders. You observe quietly as Steve observes you, watches you read up on the history of the Howling Commandos, read about his life before the serum. He’s told you about it, of course, but this makes it more than a throwaway thought in your head. Much, much more. 

 

Steve lead you to a room where a short movie is played on a loop, the one he receives commendations from the president but that’s not what your looking at. You see the shared looks between Steve and this Bucky, smaller but somehow stands taller. Less weighed down by the weight of his guilt, you suppose. He cheers for Steve, leads the crowd on a chant of his name, face so utterly different to that of your nightmares. 

 

“You know, I was pretty sick as a kid. It was different back then, getting sick didn’t always mean the same. I would never have made it without him.” Steve says, quietly, the room having emptied and refilled several times over. “He’d bring me soup from his Ma everyday, sit with me for hours whilst I rode out whatever fever hit me. Sometimes they lasted days, sometimes weeks. Lost his fair share of girls that way.” 

 

It's a struggle to reconcile this Bucky here on the screen, the Bucky who takes care of his sick friend and fights for his country against the man from your dreams. The man whose scars you carry on you right this second, hidden under clothes but always there. 

 

“He’s not that guy, the one you met before. That was never him.” Steve continues, knowing your listening, “He’s the guy who takes on three guys for his pal who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, even if it earns him a broken nose. He’s the best guy I know.”

 

“I wish I’d met him,” You say honestly, watching him smile on screen like his life wasn’t about to be ruined. Like he wasn’t about to ruin so many others. 

 

“You still can.” He looks over at you, the light from the screen dancing across his face under his cap, “He’s still in there.” 

 

\------

 

The final display was the hardest. Bucky’s memorial. It has been hastily updated since his dramatic rise from the dead. Hastily in that it was still set up like a memorial, but some of the wording had changed. You stood there and read it, reread it and let it soak in a little. This Bucky was kind, loyal and had so much more life in him. His eyes shone even in the grainy, less than quality pictures they had. He had so much pride. 

 

You read it over and over, forever getting on one sentence in particular. Something that had never occurred to you, yet here it is, written in plain black and white. Fact. 

 

“...and James Barnes is to this date, the longest standing Prisoner of War after enduring almost 70 years being held by HYDRA.”

 

Prisoner of war. 

 

Shit. 

 

Of course he was. You’d considered a lot these past few weeks but this was most definitely not one of them. 70 years being held against your will. How had this evaded you? Well, you were probably a lot more focused on torturing he did to you, you suppose. 

 

Still, it’s there now, burrowing its way into your mind, latching on and pushing towards a change. Perhaps you're both survivors. 

 

Steve joins you again, lets you slip your hand into his as you leave. The quiet is different on the way home. 

 

“You good?” He asks, because he’s Steve and he has to ask.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I am actually.”

 

“I just wanted you to have more than The Soldier. Another option” 

 

\-------------

 

The next morning, when he walks into the kitchen and halts a little at you sitting there, you don’t turn away, don’t run to your safety corner and count your breaths. He’s unsure how to deal with this, you here without Steve, you here like your waiting for him...and you are waiting. You're not surprised Steve isn’t with him, knowing he’d got called away on a mission shortly after you had arrived home last night. He eyes you warily and leans back a little like he might leave, bouncing a little on his foot at the indecision. 

 

You sip from your mug, letting it comfort you  _ or hide you _ and you push forward the second mug with your knuckles, watching his eyes slide down to it, see it filled with coffee already like you expected him or someone else. He steps again, and looks at you, checking and waiting. You nod, and tap the mug with you knuckle, a little one two that echos in the silence between you. Finally,  _ finally _ , he takes it, pulls up a chair and sits at the table. 

 

Your hand only shakes for a minute this time. Progress. 


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its taken so long, I wanted to get this right. This series is a special one for me. 
> 
> Sometimes you have to break things in order to fix them again.

“Morning.” Bucky says, quiet and without expectation. He offers you a refill on your mug, tilts it but keeps it close to him you think perhaps on purpose, not wanting to startle you with sudden movements. You half smile, and hold it out, proud of the steadiness in your fingers and wrist as you do.

 

Progress.

 

Sam was right, in the end, time was allowed. Time was needed. You're not fully  _ there  _ yet, but you're sure a hell a lot better than before. Steve helped humanise him for you, allowed you to build a little on the Bucky and less on the Soldier. 

You sit in silence, an unexpected easiness building there in between now. No, your not friends, but there's a shared pain that exists between you that none of the team can understand. A shared appreciation for the lack of social niceties or efforts that's afforded the rest of the team from you, from him. 

 

He doesn't push, won't push, so you're never on the receiving end of that effort from him, but you hear it when he’s talking with Bruce or whoever. You hear the tightness in him and the push to be polite and respectful, never raises his voice or speaks out of turn, know the effort it takes to engage. You know it because you’ve been there, sometimes still are there, lost in the thoughts of your own mind and pushing against the urge to burrow, to disappear, even for a minute. 

 

Bucky gets up after a while, gives you a nod before heading to his corner where he reads, pours over history and news like it's a lifeline for him. You watch him from the table, immersing yourself in the pang that you feel, that small sadness that's starting to sneak in when you see him like this. It's a good thing, you think, that you feel less afraid. Probably never been grateful to feel pity in all your life, but here we are, pitiful and sad and yet joyful at the thought. Ho, life. 

 

After a while, you go to refill your mug and redo the pot since it's almost done anyway, emptying the contents and starting over. There's only the quiet, the soft scratches of the pages and gentle hum from the fridge. Buckys hands are gentle, smoothing out edges and turning pages with almost trepidation in his fingers. You spend more minutes watching this than is normal, you suppose, but it's a nice way to replace other thoughts of those same fingers. The more you see this side of him, the less the other surfaces and so you watch, over and over and you think he knows. Maybe even knows the why and let's you do what you need. 

 

Today is a good day. There's no tremor in your hand and your heartbeat is steady. Today, you decide, is a pushing forward day and so you take the pot and head in his direction. Your earlier presumption confirmed when he stills immediately, halts his hand mid page turn and glances up at you.

 

“Refill?”

 

He smiles, the smile you think of as the quiet smile, real and genuine but humble. Quiet. 

 

“Yeah, uh, thanks.” He holds his mug out, the glint of the light flashes on the metal making you blink at it. A flash of a memory tries to fight it's way forward but you master it, tuck it away again in the dark corner where it should be. Not before he sees though, moves to take his hand away but you beat him to it, tilt the pot and fill his mug before he can retreat. It feels like a win. It is a win. Those pesky demons are weakening their hold on you, the thought alone makes your soul sing. It makes you brave, careless even, and so you sit the pot down on the table and then you sit down, sit across from Bucky in his corner and add a few bricks to that bridge.

 

“What are you reading?” You ask, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth and rolling it a little too hard. They were already cracked from the constant chewing these days anyway. 

 

“Um, the news mostly. Well, old news to you I guess.” He shows you the date of the newspaper he's flipping through, the date shows April 25th 1990, “I’ve missed a lot.”

 

You nod, take a gulp of your coffee and vaguely wonder if 3 cups this early is maybe too much because your blood is vibrating in your veins, “Surely there's a better way. Don’t we have archives online you could read?” 

 

“Yeah. Steve showed me how to use it.” He tilts his head, it sort of reminds you of when a dog tilts his head when he’s confused, “I like it better this way. Reminds me of before.” 

 

You nod again like you understand but how can you possibly? Sam has said time and time that no one here can understand how you feel or what you go through and really is it any different? You have no idea how he feels, forced to see you every day and carry the burdens of what he did,  _ made  _ to do. 

 

“I’m sorry.” You say, suddenly aware that you’ve just invaded his bubble without regard, “Do you want me to- I should go?” 

 

“You don’t have to.” He hurries, “I mean, you can stay. If you want.” He aims for neutral and falls somewhere between terrified and hopeful. 

 

“Okay.” You say, sit further into the chair and slide a book towards you, “I’ll stay.” 

 

\-------------

 

Sam halts you before you board the quinjet, turns you to tuck you in close and ask, “You’re sure about this?” Always looking out for you, this one. It’s expected and yet somehow still surprises you every time.

 

“Yeah, Sam. I am.” You say, and then laugh, “Do you like green eggs and ham?” 

 

He smiles, slips an arm round your shoulders and walks you into the jet, “Very original, marshmallow.”

 

It’s a mission, simple enough but it’s been awhile since you’ve gone. Steve has kept you away from the action since Bucky arrived, probably worried about your mental state and he’d be right. 

 

Or was right. 

 

You feel stronger now, strong enough for this. He’s here too, strapped in already in his seat next to Steve, gives you a half nod when you enter and lingers a little on Sam’s arm. Steve briefs you during take off, uses the time travelling to hand out objectives and confirm team set ups. He doesn’t push it, you notice, with the teams. You’re with Sam and Wanda. Steve, Bucky and Clint are the other. Tony and Nat are covering navigation and comms. 

 

Its familiar. Normal even. 

 

It’s what you need. 

 

You’re aware of his presence, but then you always are. You only check your surroundings every few minutes. Steve says something that makes Bucky laugh, the sound getting lost in the noise of the engines but the light that comes from both of them in that split second where their burdens are shed is all it takes to make you grateful. Just for a second, you're grateful that Steve has Bucky back, for a minute it’s all you need. 

 

\----

 

It goes to shit pretty swiftly. The intel was wrong, there was maybe three times as many hostiles as expected making it an almighty shift storm that you were gonna have to fight your way out of. 

 

Wanda's whipping everything in sight at your attackers, taking out a few along the way. Sams holding down as best he can and trying to draw them away, and you’re in the middle...somewhere. You’re fighting off two guys as best you can with one hand gripping the datapad you came here for. There’s blood dripping from your lip at a lucky swing the guy on your right took but the broken nose you gave him in return seems worse so you’re ok with that. They herd you back and away, the force of each attack leaving you little room but to dodge and duck, gaining no traction and there’s starting to feel like a desperation in the air.

 

Before you notice, you’ve been separated from Wanda and Sam, the sheer hopelessness of the situation starting to take its toll but you fight back harder, smarter. 

 

Aim low. Use their weight against them. Steves words add a sharpness to your fists. 

 

Then you see it, the shield whipping past you and heading straight into a guy who was throwing his weight at Wanda, the sight it makes you dizzy with relief. You turn, track it back with your eyes till you see Steve, take a step towards him and then freeze at the sight behind him.

 

Bucky. 

 

Bucky running at you. No, not Bucky.

 

The Winter Soldier.

 

The fury in his eyes reaches right into your gut and  _ stays _ . 

 

There's a moment before your brain catches up, where it's searching for the cause of the sudden gut clenching fear and then it does, stutters and freezes you right on the spot. 

 

The back of your mind, way way back, is trying to push through a thought but your too far gone into the dark place, the place you never wanted to visit again. There's a ringing in your ears except it's not ringing, it's the sound of metal on stone, dragging and dragging like a continuous ache. 

 

You brace for impact, eyes shut tight and fists clenched. It takes longer than you expect, and when he reaches you the earth tilts and spins, the breath forced out if you in a whoosh. A noises pierces your bubble on the way down, a single resounding shot and you think, assume, that the shock is preventing the pain and hit the floor with a thump. 

 

It's not the floor. It's him. 

 

“Hey,” He whispers soft into your hair, arms clamped around you, “I'm not going to hurt you.” 

 

That's when you hear the agony in his voice, realise the mistake.  _ Your  _ mistake. He sits up, taking you with him still cradled slightly on his chest, using one arm to gently place you on the floor between in legs. You're shaking now, the adrenaline and the guilt taking taking hold of your weary muscles. 

 

You turn to him, knowing what you'll find but pushing yourself anyway, see the shadows of shame in his eyes before he manages to shut it down. “Bucky.” You say, like you might be relieved and he nods once to answer a question you didn't answer.

 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, bending down to help you up.

 

“Uh, yeah, I think so?” Your voice crackles like its rusting and you bite down on your lip to keep it all in, the waves of feelings that are pushing through the safety pins and duct tape.

 

“You hit?” He says, looking over your head and you remember the gunshot, remember and turn just in time to see Bucky nod at Steve, “Where?”

 

“Shoulder. Doesn’t feel deep.” He doesn’t look at you when he answers, carefully trains his eyes on Steve and then the floor. The pieces fit together in your mind, the running, the shot, his voice.

 

He took a bullet for you.

 

And you thought he was going to hurt you.

 

“You...you did that...that’s-” Rusted, broken, defeated. Words fail, your lip trembles in the attempt to force them.

 

He finally looks at you, gives you a sad smile that settles in your chest, “It’s the  _ least  _ I could do.”


	6. Part 6

_ Dead eyes.  _

 

_ Dead eyes. _

 

_ The knife presses to your skin, dragging fire up your arm. Its agony, and yet familiar. You know this pain, you wear it well. He drops the knife, steps back into the shadows. Face distorted like an unfocused lens.  _

 

_ You look down. Blood rolls down your fingertips. It’s there. The next letter. Y _

 

_ A blink, then another. It changes, the dead eyes turn terrified. He stumbles forward, a small red circle appears on his chest. It grows and grows till its running lines down his t-shirt. He touches it, shock marring his features, hand comes away wet and red.  _

 

_ He looks at you, fear in his very real eyes. Help me, he mouths, raises a hand towards you and stumbles to his knees. You look down again. _

 

_ See the gun in your hand.  _

 

You gasp awake, breathing hard and heavy. Face wet and muscles aching, wipe a hand hastily across your cheeks as you sit up. A quick check of your phone tells you its 1am. Great, you’ve been asleep for an hour tops. The dreams were back, for the time being at least, had been since the mission last week. They've changed, of course, and you can guess why but choose to ignore it, choose to focus on the fear. 

 

Bucky has been fairly scarce since the mission and you don't blame him. If you think too long on it, the guilt reaches up from your stomach and wraps a hand round your throat. 

 

It's a while before your able to fall back asleep, chased by the screams and darkness. You dream about him until morning. 

 

\-----------

 

“Good Morning, Marshmallow.” Sam rests his knuckles on your shoulder as he passes. 

 

“Is It?” You reply, the bitterness of the words taste heavy on your tongue.

 

“Still not sleeping?” He asks, reaching over to fill up the cup your nursing like it's made of gold.

 

“Not really,” You say and then quieter, “The dreams are back.” 

 

Sam knows, he gets it. He spent years plagued by his own demons, falls and fights that still rear their heads on the odd occasion. So when he gives you the look, the not pity but a shared pain look it's not something you worry about. It's not pity from him. 

 

“Same as usual?” He asks, taking a seat across the table from you.

 

“Well yeah, I mean they start out that way.” You say, look up from the cup to meet his eyes, “But I always kill him in the end.”

 

“Ah.” There it is. The silence you were worried about, the fears that your getting worse instead of better voiced in one single syllable. Your stomach drops to your toes, swirls around on it's way down and threatening to come back up  _ quick _ . 

 

“I thought, I mean... I felt- I was dealing, ya know? Why am I back peddling?” 

 

“I don’t think that's what it is.” Sam states, solid and firm like he’s sure of it. That sure makes one of you.

 

“What do you mean?” Murder seems pretty clear, no?

 

“I think, maybe, that it has nothing to do with you being afraid of him. Stay with me here, but before he was hurting you, right?” You nod, leaning onto your forearms, “And that was pretty clearly fear. See now with you being the one to hurt him, I reckon it’s guilt.” 

 

“Guilt.” Guilt. Sure, yeah, you’d been feeling a lot of that recently. Life was pretty damn complicated right now. 

 

“Yeah. Look, what's happened, it’ll stay with you forever. But to be honest, it’s pretty clear to me that your not afraid anymore. Not fundamentally…” You arch a brow at him, thinking back to the mission but he halts you before you can protest, “Ok that was a knee jerk thing. But it’s happened now and you’ve dealt with it. I’d bet my Wings it won’t happen again.” 

 

“You seem awfully sure of that.” Your tone sounds defeated, even to you. 

 

“Because I am. You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit ya know.” He reaches over and places a hand on your arm, the weight of his words are giving you something to reach for, something to hold onto, “You are the strongest person I know. And I know The Avengers.”

 

You laugh at that, grateful for the reprieve, and he joins you, lets you lose yourself in the moment. 

 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, kid. You’re the best of us."

 

\--------

 

“You’re sure you don’t want to come?” Wanda asks for maybe the 5th time.

 

“I’m sure. Got my night planned you see, there’s a Pizza and a new season of Brooklyn 99 with my name on it.” You insist, knowing you’d rather be here than out at a club right now. 

 

“Just...call me if you need anything, okay?” She chews her bottom lip a bit before adding, “I mean anything.”

 

“I promise, okay? Cross my heart n’all that. No go, get. Have a good time. You deserve it.” 

 

Wanda and a few others were going out. Steve was on another mission. You weren't really sure who was around tonight and you didn't really care. Tonight was all about relaxing, really letting yourself have a night of nothing. No social expectations, no small talk or knowing looks. Just you, Gina Linetti and a Pepperoni beauty.  

 

Sam had helped you remember that you’d come a long way these last few months, certainly further than the years before that. Setbacks were ok, and you were learning to be grateful for the progress and small stuff. 

 

Forgiveness has to start with you. 

 

You’re a good 2 hours in when the world goes black. Or the room, depends on the perspective. It should phase you, but it doesn’t. Truthfully, not much does anymore. Combat training and life experience will do that, you suppose. You wait a few minutes for the power to come back, but it doesn't. Steve’s nagging voice in your head about having emergency supplies for such occasions makes you laugh, having always dismissed him because the likelihood of that happening anywhere near Tony was infinitesimal and yet here you were cross-legged on your bed in the dark. He’ll love this. 

 

It’s another minute or so before you huff and drag yourself out of bed, tentatively making your way to the door since you figure you better go find and somehow fix the generator. Everyone’s out, either on a mission or partying. Either way, you're on your own.  _ Great _ .

 

In the hallways, the dim, blue back up lights are on giving you a better view after your eyesight adjusts to it. You march down the hall towards the stairs, not bothering to put on shoes in your hurry to get there and back, annoyed more than anything that this happens tonight when Tony isn’t here to take care of it. A quick eye roll at your own selfish thoughts, how quick you lean on him for these types of things. It's quiet, nothing more than the soft hum of the dim lights and the slap of your feet on the concrete, a melodic soundtrack that despite your best reasoning makes the hairs on your arms stand. 

 

Slap Slap. Slap Slap. Surely regretting the hasty exit without those shoes now, the cold starting to seep into your toes. 

 

You finally,  _ finally _ , reach the room where the generator is, can just about make out the sign on the door and the Tony-esque warnings not to enter. It's large, heavy and takes most of your body weight to shift open but with surprisingly little noise. Figures that Tony has even his doors to near perfection. So you enter, silent, close the door quiet behind you and step further into the room. It's hotter, you notice, but also duller. Harder to make out the shapes of things, dark silhouettes give little indication where you might begin fixing the problem. You smooth your feet along the floor, careful not to overstep or miss anything, the last thing you need is ending up breaking a leg and starving to death all because you tripped over your own feet. Steve's words come back to haunt you again. 

 

“ _ You never know when you might need a torch, Y/N.” _

 

Damn Boy Scout. The fucking irony. 

 

As you get further into the room you start to make out more shapes, glance and peer along the wall until you see what might resemble a switchboard and slowly head to it. When you open the box and run your hand over the labels, it's really at this point you truly understand just how out of your depth you are. 

 

Over 50 switches stare down at you, mocking you. Shit. 

 

_ Is there an on switch? Ha!  _

 

You run a hand down your face in almost defeat, figure there's nothing for it and start flipping switches on and off at random, pausing for small moments in between for any effects. Tony will understand, you think, maybe.  _ Probably _ . 

 

“I'm not sure that's helping.” The voice comes out of the dark behind you and startles you so much you fall forward and smash your hand against 10 or so switches at once, heart thumping wildly against your ribs like it might crack them open. 

 

You know exactly who it is, once your brain catches up, know exactly the voice and the soft tones behind it. 

 

Bucky. 

 

There's fear mixed with relief, but not fear of him, at least not that you can determine. It's all muddled inside you but your surer now that the relief is that it's him and no one else, and that's a new and welcome feeling. 

 

“Shit, sorry.” He rushes out as you spin to face him, “Didn't mean to scare you.”

 

“No, you didn't.” You rush back, “I mean yes, I was expecting anyone to be here...but  _ you _ didn't scare me.” 

 

You watch him process the thing you're saying without saying, squint a bit in the darkness to witness the softening of his brow and small, almost infinitesimal widening of his eyes. He gets it. You hope. It's dark, sure, but you can still make out his face and it's the first time you really stop and take notice of it, without the demons. Really notice the slant of his lip into that curve, or the stellar lines of his jaw and think, objectively of course, that he was probably a hit with the ladies back in the day. His day. 

 

He shifts a little on his feet and you realise you’re staring, but also that he is too. He's so unsure of you, so unsure of himself, shifting from one foot to the other like he's clearly uncomfortable, a vast contrast to his unflinching gaze. Like he won't move till you move. You break the stare with a few blinks and give him your back, gesture a bit at the switchboard, “So, uh, clearly I know what I'm doing… got any ideas?” 

 

“Yeah, can I?” He points at the board and you move to let him see, step back a bit to keep the distance and watch him run along the board with a finger reading the numbers and letters like they make any sort of sense (which they don't). His fingers move over the switches you flipped, switching them back and then, you assume, makes a few calculated decisions. On the last one, there's a faint him and click, before the lights blink back on and blind you both a little. 

 

“Well, color me impressed.” You say, and you mean it. He has fixed what you were so clearly not, and in less than 60 seconds. Perhaps Tony was teaching him a few things?

 

“Hhmm. I guess I learned a lot of things over the years.” He turns and heads towards the door, “After I learned how to remember, that is.” 

 

Of course...the memory wipes. You’d heard a bit about it, but never really thought about it. Another thought barrels right to your gut, if he remembers things like this, he probably remembers it all, right? He remembers it  _ all _ .

 

You get so lost in your own terrifying thoughts that you don’t understand Bucky’s look at first. They way he turns back to you, frustration and apprehension written on his face. So it takes you a few seconds to read him, see what he’s feeling and finally, “What is it?”

 

“The doors locked.” 


	7. Part Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M SO SORRY ITS BEEN MONTHS! *taps screen* is anybody still reading this? I wanted to make sure the pace was right and then I siked myself out. Feedback loved and appreciated.

There are times in your life, in everyone's life, where they have a moment that seems like the whole universe is against them. That in all the random actions and consequences that could take place, somehow the exact thing you don't need is the thing that happens. This is what crosses your mind right now, that even a few days ago, this would have been a very cruel joke for it to play on you, locked in a room with your tormentor. A few days ago,  _yeah_ , this would have played out very differently.

_“The doors locked.”_

You process Bucky's words for a few seconds, see the glimmer of worry in his eyes as he watches you and the absurdity of it all hits you, laughs bubble up and escape, one and then another, more and more until your doubled over and teary eyed. He seems confused for a few seconds before his mouth slants into a smile, bares down on a laugh that feels like he just handed you a cookie.

“Ironic, huh?” He says, leaning back on the door and looking at you from the side of his eyes.

“You could say that.” You nod, wiping the tears from your eyes and stretching your jaw a bit, loosening the muscles from the workout they hadn't had in a long time. Damn, were you really that bad?

Bucky steps around you, carefully but quickly, and makes his way back to the switchboard. You watch him go, watch the muscles under his shirt move like waves as he hums in concentration. You take a second to marvel at the shininess of his hair, the luxuriousness that anyone with hair would surely envy and think how soft it must feel. Smother an urge to run your fingers through it just to know what  _good_ hair might be like. Jealousy, right? Yeah no need to pull at that particular thread.

Bucky frustrated sigh brings you back to yourself, the measured exhale and the following seconds that says he's considering how to face you, how to tell you whatever has him working pins into his spine. It takes a few more seconds before he faces you, tries for eye contact but falls a little into your hairline instead.

“So, there seems to be a fail safe that's been tripped. I can't get the door open.” He explains, tone carefully neutral and the carefulness he's affording you pangs around in the hollowness of your heart.

“Tripped?”

“Mm Hmm. This one here, if I'm reading it right.” He points to one of the switches you messed with before he took over and realise the implications. You'd done it. Ha! What are the chances that you'd end up locking yourself in with him this time.

“Oh, shit.” You have the decency to look a little guilty, twist your mouth into a side smile and point towards yourself, “Uh,  _guilty_.”

He loosens his chest and smiles back, “I figured.” His spine seems to sink a few inches when you don’t lose your shit, since you assume that’s what he’s waiting for. Is he always waiting for that? You glance around the room, noting nothing of any use to your escape and knowing that if the fail safe was built by Tony then neither of you were going anywhere anytime soon. You walk to the nearest wall, tip against it and slide dramatically down till your cross legged on the floor. Bucky just stares.

“Better get comfortable, probably gonna be in here for a while.” You motion to the floor beside you and tilt your head back against the wall.

He steps forward slowly, eyes hovering on the spot you offered like it might be lined with acid and the straightens his spine and closes the distance, sits down beside you with his knees up and his hands folded neatly in his lap. There’s less space between you than there's ever been and you body doesn’t react at all. The small victories just gained a few miles.

It’s comfortable for a while until the heat really starts to bare down on you, pressing into your chest and reminding you that your stuck,  _trapped_ , and your fingers start to press into your knees to fight against that feeling. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it but a few seconds he says, “You didn’t want to go out tonight?”

It’s an offering, a distraction and you’ll gladly take it, “Nah, not really my thing.”

“Clubs?” He turns a little to angle towards you, tucks his closes knee under and looks at you.

“Crowds. People. The general public.”

He smiles at that, tips his head in a nod, “Same here.” The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, the combination of both carves into your hollowness again. The sadness hangs off the corners of his mouth.

“Bucky, about the mission.” You begin, because its eating away at you to leave things how they were, are, and you feel the overwhelming urge to explain. “I didn’t mean to…” You trail off because  you don’t actually know how to say what you want to say. How do you apologise to someone for the mental scars they gave you? You grasp at the thoughts and try to arrange it better in your mind.

“What happened… that’s not how I feel, not anymore.” You begin, and look up to find him watching, the stillness in his bones gives the illusion of calm but you know better, “I’m sorry I reacted like that. Sorry you got hurt.”

He’s quiet for so long that you wonder if he’s going to ignore it all together, the weight in that silence making your shift your ankles and your toes jittery before he finally says, low but with feeling, “You have nothing to apologise for.”

“I do, because I know the difference now, between  _him_ and you, and I’m sorry that I forgot for a second.”

He looks like he might argue until you fix him with a look, a challenge and eventually he settles on, “Thank you.”

Baby steps.

The silence feels more forced this time around, like it's taunting you both to prove the things you've just said, prove you can move past it. It hums over your skin and forces you to grasp at something, anything, to fill the void.

“What was Steve like, you know, before?” There it is. Common ground. The thing you have in common.

“A punk.” He laughs, eyes on you again and the relief is palpable.

You scoff, “He's still a punk.”

“That's true.” He agrees, the smile reaches all the way up to the corners of his eyes, “Now he can actually win the fight instead of getting his ass beat from sunup till sundown.”

“He always skips that part when he's telling a story, you know.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He rolls his eyes, “He hasn’t really changed. Not really. He’s just a little bigger now but would still go up against the world to right a wrong.”

“He’s more trouble than the public give him credit!” You laugh, chest feeling lighter despite the heat. Fingers resting against your skin instead of pressing into.

“Right? Thank you! Even when we were kids, it was always Bucky’s trouble but Steve, oh he’s such a nice boy! Spent most of my life being dragged into stuff he started.” He laughs with you and it changes his whole face, lets you glimpse the Bucky of before who has laugh lines and an easy smile. It’s nice.

“One time, when we were kids, he made us go three boroughs over just to walk a girl home. And I mean, like, 10 years old at most. My mom nearly called a search party for us.” He starts off laughing, but as he nears the end of the sentence he falters and it hits you all at once how painful it must be to remember his family. Is it worse for them to know or not know what happened to him? Another thump against your ribcage for that heart of yours, another layer to the guilt and the rage. The scars you bared seemed to pale in comparison the more you let yourself really see him.

“You miss her?” A statement more than a question but one he answers anyway.

“Every day.” He gives you a sad sort of smile, clenches and unclenches his fists reflexively. You act on instinct alone, the need to soothe his pain that's come from the dark, hollow place inside you where the pain is mirrored, reach out a hand and give his arm a squeeze, letting it rest a few seconds more.

It takes a few seconds more for your mistake to register, to follow Bucky's stare to your outstretched arm and secrets hidden along it. The scars. The horror isn’t want bothers you, no, your used to that but the recognition in his eyes, the knowledge that he knows it was him to put them there well that’s a look burned right to your soul. You can see it when the panic and the grief takes hold, when he gets drawn under.

“I did… I did that.” He says, to himself more than to you, pure undiluted anguish in his voice, “I did that to you...How can you even… How can you look at me?” You don’t get to answer him before he continues, words starting to fold together as he spirals into a full blown panic attack, “I did it. I hurt you,  _scarred_ you. Fuck. Piece of shit. And you apologise to me? I did that.”

“Bucky, hey, Bucky stop.” You try to insist, try to reason but it’s like there's a wall up, like he can’t even hear you and the pain is threatening to shatter you into those pieces you held together with tape and glue. Hes dragging has palms over his face, digging in to his eyes and pulling at his hair, whispering now about what he did over and over. You keep talking, keep insisting that he listen, that you know but he's panic deaf and grief blind, his fingers find his knees and they dig and dig till you're sure bones are creaking with the effort not to break and the growing weight of it all is staggering. You know the panic he feels but you have Wanda to bring you back, to light up the edges of your darken vision and be your gravity. He has no one but you in this moment and you have no way to reach him. Your mind grasps frantically at old forgotten knowledge and hooks on one piece, one tiny fact and before you can process it your body fights to act, takes over and moves whilst your consciousness sags in relief of a plan, any plan, and fails to sense check that plan.

It happens in an instant, between one blink and the next, you curl your fingers around his wrists and use the momentum to bring you forward, he's too far gone to notice the touch or the movements so he does nothing, let's you crowd in close to him and peel the fingers from his knees. He breathes like his lungs might burst, like all the air around him is coated in lead and the struggle for air is physical.

You continue moving forward, the one second momentum lasting a lifetime and do what you need to, the only thing you know and press your lips to his, slip a hand up to his neck to anchor yourself to him and throwing all your weight into it. He freezes, and it's like a victory lap because as he freezes he also does what you hoped and holds his breath, and as it loosens, so does his muscles and joints all the way to his toes.  The blinding panic recedes in a mere few seconds and on instinct alone, he kisses you back, molds his lips to yours and wraps his fingers around your waist.

You think that  _probably_ , you should have stopped him, probably you should be putting the space there now that he's back and you probably shouldn't be letting him deepen that kiss or sweep through your mouth like he belongs there.  _Probably_. But you get swept away in the relief and then swept away even further by how nice it is, how your blood sings in a way that was long forgotten and heart rate pulses in your ears like the sweetest music. The smallest grain of sense breaks through and gives you enough strength of will to pull back, finally, and let the moment settle like lead between you.

He stares at you, breaths rattling around a bit and you wonder if it was the kiss or the before that causes it, “You kissed me.” His tone offers it like a question and really, it's a fair one.

“I read somewhere once that you can stop a panic attack by holding your breath.” You rush out, words blurring into other words at points but still mostly coherent and you notice, belatedly, that your breathing matches his. “I had no idea if it was true.”

“I guess it is.” He responds, the corners of his mouth tilting up a bit, eyes glittering with an energy you’ve never seen from him. They look so bright, so  _alive_. You wonder if yours look the same.

You sit that way for a while, cautious staring and strung out relief, counting your heartbeats till they steady out. He doesn’t mention the reason for his attack and neither do you, you know he heard some of what you said during and honestly, you're too emotionally drained to press. There’s a clunk that pierces the silence and Bucky tilts his head like he's listening, gives you a confused glance before getting up and heading to the door. He gives it a shove and the door mercifully opens, and before he can even say anything, your up and out the door into the waiting cool air.

“Freedom.” You say as you press your face along the nearest wall, letting the cool concrete sooth your hot skin. You hear Bucky laugh behind you and smile into the wall that you put it there, turn to join him in making your way back to the main living area. The silence between you mostly comfortable, somewhat awkward and feels damn good to not be so afraid all the time. There’s still a lot to wade through but you definitely feel like a war was just won. You part ways on small smiles and murmured goodnights, slip quietly back to your room and head straight to bed.

It’s only in the darkness that you allow yourself a moment to think about it, to press the tips on your fingers against your lips.


	8. Part Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, well, you know what's coming. So sorry for how long its been between chapters. I have been trying to get ahead of myself on this one so hopefully it won't be as long between next time. As always, feedback loved and appreciated.

_ Dead eyes.  _

 

_ Dead eyes. _

 

_ The knife drips your blood onto the floor, once, twice, forever. The screaming starts, fills your head up with the agony and horror of his pain. He looks at you and then he smiles. _

 

_ “Please don’t make me.” You look down, the last letter. H _

 

_ He screams again, drops the knife and screams and screams till your ears threaten to burst. You can’t control your limbs, they move without thought and take the knife. The handle digs into your skin till it bleeds.  _

 

_ He smiles again, mouths “It’s ok.” You plunge the knife into his heart. _

  
  


You gasp awake in the darkness, claw at your chest in a blind panic before reason sets in and you remember it was a dream. It’s not real. You reach for the bottle of water on your dresser, gulp it down in between gasping breaths to sooth your throat, wrung raw with the screaming you assume you’ve been doing. It’s been a week since you got locked in with Bucky. The dreams are still there but less so than before, some nights you even get a full 5 hours before they kick in and now they taunt you with a new, different way you become the villain, your subconscious seemingly delighting in torturing you so. It was easier, you think, when it was you were the one being hurt. 

 

Neither you nor Bucky have mentioned the kiss. It's like it’s something neither of you want to ruin or tarnish by over analysing or regretting the moment. An unspoken agreement to leave this small, soft moment between you like a barrier from the rest. There was a few awkward moments the next day but you were able to move past it and spent the rest of the day in companionable silence, Bucky back to pouring over news articles and history books whilst you started on the new Sarah J Maas novel. It was nice, normal even. 

 

You check the time on your phone, find that tonight is not a 5 hour sleep night and decide that you need to burn off that jittery energy thats now coating your bones. There’s a treadmill in the gym that Tony fitted for you and it’s the perfect way to burn it, so you force yourself up and out of bed and straight into something better suited to a workout. Barely. 

 

The halls are silent, the dead sort of silence that only the exact middle of the night can bring. It's peaceful. No ex-soldiers or assassins pacing the halls, no nightmares, no screaming. The gym is quiet except the hum of the lights and it's so familiar that you feel better already. This is your therapy, where you spent most of your time after missions, after that mission. 

 

You head to the conveniently placed fridge, another thank you to Mr Stark, and grab a bottle of water before heading to your treadmill. The tread is worn and there’s scuffs on the face of it from one too many pounding fists, each mark another battle overcome.  _ Home _ . It starts off easy, a steady pace to warm up your blood but that jittery energy is pulsing like it needs more so you up the speed, and keep upping it till your flat out and thundering, chasing the high that quiets your brain and liberates your muscles. Your body aches and groans but you keep pushing, adding mile after mile to your tread until your knees bend with the force to keep you up and going. You punch the stop button and slow with it, gasp down water from the bottle you forgot you had and stumble backwards. Lungs burn and protest with every drag of air and vision going spotty but the energy is gone and your brain has quieted, for the moment at least. You peel back the way and fall somewhat aimed towards the mats, elbows and wrists falling hard against it with no muscles left to keep them upright. It's then, you notice  _ him  _ behind you, watching and wrapping his hands like he intends to use the bag but got distracted by your attempt to run yourself to death. Tipping your head back, you meet his smile with one of your own, too exhausted to ask anything further. It wouldn't be the first time you'd ran yourself right into the morning. 

 

“That was impressive.” Bucky says, tipping his head towards the treadmill. His eyes say something else, edge on concern that he might know exactly why your here instead of sleeping, maybe it's even why he's here too. He moves towards the boxing area, giving you his back and you know he's also giving you your privacy, saying without saying that he won't ask or pry. You stay there, spread on the mat, until your lungs aren't threatening to tear the seams of your ribs and your heart rate slows to a less painful pace, watch the spots fade on the bare white ceiling and wonder if you could reach high enough to paint it to match them. 

 

It's quiet and calm, the soft taps of Bucky fist against the bag floating harmlessly into your ear. The small, quiet joy that the sight of it doesn't make you flinch, doesn't pull wasteful memories to the surface or make your spine ache in that way it once would have. You push yourself up, eventually, and tuck your legs under you, content just to watch him work away at his own energy and celebrate each step that got you here. The more you watch the more you notice how measured his movements are, how precise the level for force and the tuck of his elbow is and you wonder if he knows this from before, if maybe this was professional more than it was the violent kind you were versed in. Less boxing, more hitting. He breaks for a drink and notices you watching, runs his tongue over a stray drop on his lip and then pulls it in, thinking, deciding.

 

“You wanna join me?” He asks, trying and failing to keep the hope and the fear out his eyes but they whisper it to you anyway, confide their secrets that call to your own. 

 

“Sure. I’m a little less elegant than you, though.” You admit, pushing up onto your feet and walking over to grab the tape, consider briefly that you'd never prepared for the bag on your own before gesturing towards him with the tape. 

 

He smiles. It's glorious.

 

His fingers brush your palm when he takes it, the tingle they leave afterwards is, you decide, because of your overworked body and nothing whatsoever related to the ache in your belly. Gentle hands move over yours, diligently wrapping your knuckles in the tape and expertly sealing it. He doesn't look at you as he does it, but you don't miss the way his jaw clenches or his throat moves in a swallow that seems to grate along his muscles. Forced, measured.

 

You test the bonds with a clenched fist and find it's pretty perfect, comfortable even. 

 

“You wanna take the bag or… I could grab the focus pads?” He asks you, eyes anywhere but yours, moving to place the hanging punch bag between you like a buffer. You wonder if you’ll ever not be nervous around each other, ever not measure your responses and think twice on every word. 

 

“How about the focus pads? That way you can teach me those moves you were pulling a second ago.” He laughs, punched out on the outtake like a surprised relief and it allows your shoulders to relax a few inches. He heads towards the cupboard where the pads are kept and you watch him, notice that even his gait is different, that his muscles seem to move in fluid synchronization at such a stark contrast to the heavy, biting movements of the soldier. 

 

Another difference, another reminder.   

 

He holds the pads up, gestures with his chin for you to begin and takes a wide stance. You tap them a few times, testing, and then start to throw your weight behind them. It’s slower, clunkier than the punches he was using just a minute ago.

 

“See, definitely don’t have boxing finesse.” You half smile at him, roll back onto your heels and try to think about his stance. 

 

“Your feet are slower than your punches. You gotta punch as fast as your body can turn so you don’t sacrifice power.” He sounds different when he says it, so sure and comfortable in it. You wonder if that's how he used to sound all the time. 

 

You try to adjust your punches like he says, push your weight onto your toes and time your twists better. There’s a difference immediately, the impact is stronger and takes less effort. He talks you through some sequences, giving you tips as you go and there's a easy atmosphere building. The more comfortable he is, the bigger affect it has on you and the workout you had before he arrived got rid of any restless energy left. It’s comfortable enough that your mind wanders a little, letting the numbness of the activity spur your movements and a quiet calm seep into your thoughts. It's a victory in itself that you can switch off like this in his presence.

 

The next punch you throw is harder than the others, you know as soon as your body twists but it's too late to do anything and it’s not like Bucky can’t handle it. He absorbs the blow with nothing more than a soft grunt, and a fraction of an inch in movement.

 

Thee sound itself was harmless but combined with the numbness in your brain it pulls out a memory that flashes in front of you, The Soldier layers over the top of Bucky for nothing more than a second but it's enough to make you flinch and step back. One blink is all it takes to clear the memory and ground you back with Bucky, back to safety, but not before he sees it and flinches himself. Flinches at your fear. 

 

You blink at each other, now standing further apart and fighting against the memories that are trying to bubble up between you. Bucky eyes you warrily, guiltily, and waits for the reaction he expects. Instead, you find a laugh pushing up your chest and out your mouth before you can control it. Bucky’s face morphs into confusion, concern hanging off the edge of his mouth as it twists.

 

“What a fucking pair we are.” You explain, and laugh low again, “Nothing like flashbacks to ruin a budding friendship.” 

 

“Friendship?” He sounds so pained that you can’t be sure, don’t know if it’s something he wants or dreads. 

 

“Sure.” You say, careful with the tone so you can be clear he has an equal choice here, “I hope so, anyway.” 

 

“Yeah.” He says, smiles and takes that step forward again, “I do, too.”


	9. Part Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments so far. I'm *trying* to post this more regularly guys, hopefully I can keep it up. Anyways, this part is heavy in some ways, and joyous in others. Will trade nuggets for comments.

The next night, you manage to sleep a little later and when you wake, it feels like the celebration of real progress. In fact, your body clock is famous within the walls and the fact that your missing from your usual perch beside the coffee maker this morning has Sam knocking on your door just as your brushing your teeth.

 

You swing the door open, brush hanging out the side of your mouth and try to smile when you see him, “Hey.” (It doesn’t remotely sound like that.)

 

“Urgh, gross.” He wrinkles his nose at you and follows you inside. 

 

You brush the last few times and the disappear to spit in the sink before heading back out to Sam, “I would apologise, but you did interrupt me.”

 

“Yeah, I didn’t see you at breakfast, was just checking in.” He says it casually, but you know that he means he was worried, that maybe you’d had a really bad night and were holed up here. Jesus, you didn’t deserve a friend like Sam Wilson. Heart of pure diamond. 

 

“I’m good,” You smile, take a seat beside him on the couch, “I slept late.”

 

“You slept late?” He asks, confusion at first and then you see it when the implications finally settle, “You slept late!” 

 

To anyone else, it might seem inconsequential, but Sam knows what it means to you, what it must feel like to finally feel like you might be healing in a deep rooted way and not just the fear and the anxiety. Sam who has half carried you the way, taking up the slack when you couldn’t yourself. It his victory as much as it's yours. 

 

“Thank you, Sam. For everything.” 

 

“Don't look at me, I just showed you the way, you did all the walking.” 

 

“Like my own personal Gandalf.” You can’t fight the smile at the thought of Sam in Gandalf’s hat, “You’d suit that hat, y’know.”

 

“Okay, Frodo. That’s enough of that.”

 

\-------------------

 

You take a small sip of the coffee now in front of you, hum low at the back of your throat and shoot Sam a grateful smile. He ducks to peck you on the cheek before disappearing to work with Tony on some new tech for his Wings.

 

Steve appears a little later, his usual smile is little more forced, the corners of his eyes a little tighter and you instantly worry, recognise the absence of a certain someone and figure they must be related. You feel yourself deflate a little at that, and you don’t take the time to analyse if its because of Steve, or if it’s something else.

 

“You okay?” You ask him when he grabs a mug from the counter, filling it almost to the brim with Sam’s coffee.

 

“Yeah, all good.” He replies easily, shooting you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

“No Bucky, today?” You try to sound casual but the way Steve looks at you suggests it was anything but. 

 

“He, uh, had a difficult night.” He says it gently, hesitantly, and you know immediately that it’s specifically  _ you _ . He’s dreaming about you, again. 

 

“Oh.” You brain comes up empty, too busy tripping over how much this aches, how the pain has new edges that you don’t want to inspect too closely. 

 

“I’ll check on him in a while, see if he wants to come out and have dinner.”

 

Wanda emerges muttering her good mornings a lot closer to evening that you care to point out, but take her company on the sofa anyway and spend some time letting Netflix play in the background as she fills you in on her night out. It’s nice and relaxed, yet you can’t help but find your mind wandering to Bucky, wonder if he’s OK and if seeing you will only make it worse. Guilt overlapping with concern and you pull at your fingers until Wanda flicks you on the shoulder to gain your attention.

 

“Ow!” You shoot her a what-the-fuck look, because what the fuck?

 

“Am I boring you?” She laughs, nudges you with her shoulder and gives you that smile. The one that reminds you of all the good. 

 

You sigh, “No, of course not, I’m sorry. Just distracted.”

 

“I see that. Everything okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine.  _ Great _ , even.” You say and mean it. 

 

“So what’s the distraction?” Wanda pushes, giving you the nudge you might need to talk because she knows it's difficult for you. 

 

“It’s, uh, Steve said Bucky had a bad night.”

 

“Ah.” One word to strip you bare.

 

“Ah, what?” Did you sound defensive, because you're probably defensive. 

 

“You’re worried about him.”

 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” You sound a bit defeated, even to your own ears because truthfully you didn’t know what to do with that information. 

 

“Does that bother you?”

 

“No. It’s just weird I guess. But it means I’m not faking the forgiveness, right?”

 

“I think that you can forgive someone and still not find the strength to care for them.” She says, her unflinching gaze peeling back your layers, “And yet, you have. You do.”

 

“Is that stupid?”

 

She pauses, gives you the weight of her stare, “It’s brave.” Not really an answer. 

 

Steve appears behind Wanda a second later, meets your eyes over her shoulder and gives a soft shake of his head. No, Bucky wouldn’t be coming out today. 

 

The rational side of your brain helpfully points out that it bothers you more than it should.

 

\----------------------------

 

Tick. Thump. Tick. Thump.

 

The clock ticks and your heart thumps, a methodic rhythm that bounces between the walls, refuses to get lost in the darkness of your room. Was it just this morning you were celebrating? Thing with that is, progress is progress but when its at the expense of another, it takes the shine out of it. At least, that’s the sort of thinking that has you  _ still  _ awake, contemplating your life choices and marvelling at the bizarre turn your life has taken to where your kept awake at night by thought of the man who tortured you having a rough time. 

 

Ho, life. 

 

It doesn’t take long for you to give up the game of sleep, throw on some workout clothes and head to the sanctity of your treadmill. You spend an hour adding a few more miles to the tread on your sneakers then find a corner to curl up and try not to cough up a lung. That’s when he turns up.

 

Your not really sure why you choose to remain quiet, it might be the tense way he holds his shoulders or the thrumming energy that has him pacing on the spot but whatever it is keeps you silent from your spot in the corner. Bucky finally stops in front of the punch bag, grips the sides with his fingers like it’s holding him up before unleashing himself on it, the bag groans under the assault, his fists beats against it so quick the sounds start merge together like vibration. It’s both difficult and mesmerizing to watch, the pain and anger in each punch but the speed and accuracy, the grace with which his body moves on pure muscle memory alone. It’s nothing at all like the movements of the solder, and for that reason you find no apprehension inside you, not even the beginnings of any fear as you watch him. You mentally scold yourself for finding victory in this display of agony.

 

Then it happens, the moment where he breaks. A slow motion drop to his knees, skin dragging painfully down the bag that you _know_ has to be sticking, the endless horror of the sound that comes from his throat. That defeat. You know that sound, know that feeling, and the full weight of it hits you right in the chest, hands of grief clawing away till they find a little give, a little purchase and pull you open. The sounds keep coming, raw and unchecked, the full gravity of his misery laid bare for an audience he doesn’t even know he has. The guilt pushes you up, walks your feet those steps to him and drops you down next to him. _Help_ _him_ , it says.

 

You reach out a hand, half whisper his name as it touches his shoulder and lightening fast he has your wrist in his grip, eyes wide and red-rimmed as he stares at you. 

 

That one hundred mile stare. 

 

He looks for longer than is comfortable, long enough that you begin and abandon a few apologies, a few comforts and try to begin again when his other hand reaches out to you, grazes your cheek with the softest touch for the tears you didn’t know were falling. He looks from your face to his now wet fingers, spends another few seconds in pure agony and sobs your name. Then he  _ leans _ .

 

You have time to stop him, time to change what’s about to happen but you don’t, let him push up onto his knees and forward, pulling you towards him with his hand still wrapped around your wrist and finding your lips with his. 

 

You could stop him.

 

But you don’t.

 

No, instead you let his fingers curl around your waist and along your jaw, let his lips apply that sweet pressure that pulls the blood right to the surface of your skin. Kiss him back with all that bubbling emotion that’s been eating at you since he entered, let him feel all the ounces of pain and guilt and everything in between, lose the way back in the barest brush and all that quiet intensity. You know, somewhere in you, that it’s a terrible idea to do this but the second his lips touched you the rational side of your brain went numb, the rest of you so wrapped up in the feeling of  _ feeling _ , spent so much time fighting or falling that your whole being pulls towards this other sensation. This thing you’d forgotten was possible and were now throwing yourself entirely at. His kisses taste like forgotten moments and untapped grief. Your pain matches his. 

 

Your fingers climb up his arms and hook around his neck, his body trembles under the touch, leans towards each movement like hes aching for it. He  _ is _ . You  _ are _ . You chance a few fingers into his hairline, let the soft strands slip between your fingers and are rewarded with a low groan. It's a sound you could stand to hear again, and so you chase it, search for it, lose yourself in that chase the same way he's losing himself in you. Each press of lips chase the darkness further, each moan guards from those ever present memories in a far more effective way than anything else every has. 

 

It's addictive, the press of his lips, the feel of his skin on your skin. You don't know how to stop.  _ (You don't want to stop.) _

 

His lips move across your jaw and you tilt to give him the room he's searching for, find yourself pulled onto his lap as his lips touch the spot under your jaw and continue down making your muscles melt with each touch. Your thighs find their home straddling his, the hard feel of him pressed against you as his fingers press and urge you to move and so you do, one slow grind that bleeds into another. Then another. Your breaths are shorter, punching out of you rapid and mixing with the sighing moans escaping you and the echoing ones from Bucky. There’s nothing else but this moment, this feeling. There’s no fear, no pain, no never ending guilt. 

 

The feeling builds, morphs into something with a destination, licks fire up your spine that pours from you to him, his fingers tighten and and your breathing hitches. Whatever weight there was between you is lost to the song of movement, the blissful blindness that has nerve endings chanting incoherencies. You come undone, breathing your pleased little noises into his neck and his answering groan tells you he’s right beside you, clutching hands and curving spines together. Your heart beats lasciviously for the matching scars and matching fervor.

 

Then, there’s nothing but breathing. His, yours, the returning presence of regret, barely contained agony and newly adorned satisfaction mixing together like old friends. The floodgates are bending against the will of the guilt that's waiting to overcome you, the feeling that you  _ should  _ have stopped this but undone by the sight of him, of needing to soothe and to be soothed so much it almost split your bones. It’s difficult to regret something and yet ache for it again, for the soft touches that chase away the dark edges. 

 

He disrupts your spiralling thoughts with his fingertips, cups your face and tilts up, whispers your name in that tone you can’t quite place. You wait, desperately clinging to the floating numbness as gravity comes for you, licks at your heels with renewed purpose. 

 

“I do not see why we had to be up this early just to train.” Sam’s voice echoes down the hallway sending you up and away from Bucky in a blind panic, shoving yourself back and straight to the treadmill before he reaches the door. You don’t miss the way his fingers grip you to the last second.

 

“It’s not that early.” Steve insists as he follows him through, “See, Y/N and Bucky are both up.” 

 

“Jesus, does everybody love the fucking sunrise?” Sam mutters, pauses at your side to give you that smile of his, “Jeez, Y/N. Time for a break, maybe? Your legs are like jello.”

 

Bucky splutters mid-gulp of his water and you do your best not to tuck your chin. 

 

Sam, fucking, Wilson. 


	10. Part Ten

_ Dead Eyes _

 

_ Kind Eyes _

 

_ He’s there, like he always is, above you. In front of you.  _

 

_ This time, he’s not alone. There’s a figure there behind him, hands him the knife he leans to you with. The figure steps into the light, the figure is you. _

 

_ You scream, and cry, “Why are you helping him?” _

 

_ He smiles, stands the other you in front of him and puts the knife over her heart.  _

 

_ The screaming starts. _

 

The sun filters through the gap in your curtains, draws lines along the floorboards till it reaches your wall, a slice of light in a room of dark. Your eyes track it several times over till your heart beats time with it, slows to a steady pace and lets the ringing in your ears fade enough to hear your own thoughts again. 

 

You roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling, counting your breaths and overthinking the nightmare like you always do, have to do. It changes a lot now, of course, but this one feels closer to that guilt you’ve been fighting lately. Not the guilt for Bucky, but for that part of you that’s forever broken by him. That girl who cried herself to sleep for months, who picked angrily at the scars on her arms till they bled through her shirts and had panic attacks in dark rooms that she slept with the light on for six months afterwards. Logically, you know that she was you and nothing was making you choose between her and Bucky but the closer you got to him, the further away you seemed from the girl who fought and clawed her way out of that panic and back to you. She was why you were still here. 

 

Guilt for him, guilt for her. Nothing is ever simple.

 

You’d yet to speak to him after that moment in the gym, navigate the overlapping needs with the wants and find a ground somewhere in logic and sense. Yeah, the fun stuff. 

 

The interrupting growls from your stomach force some movement into your limbs, carry your body up and in search of some suitable clothes for a venture to the kitchen. It’s late enough that someone might have made something and that thought has you pulling on the closest lounge pants and following your stomachs hope all the way to the kitchen. 

 

“Morning.” Sam greets you, hunched over his mountain of pancakes, already thumbing a few onto a waiting plate and shoving it towards you.

 

“My hero.” You declare with a flourish of hands and not so gracefully tuck in, politeness left behind long ago between you and as soon as the taste hits your tongue you sigh, a slow smile spreading in between chews.

 

“Sleep well, again?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” You did, in some ways. The dream has stayed with you this time. 

 

“You don’t sound convinced.” 

 

“I mean, I clocked decent hours.” You say, glance up at him before continuing, “Still having nightmares.”

 

“Yeah, I still get those too.” He says it, reaches between you to smooth a thumb over the back of your hand, “Doesn’t mean you're not doing good though.” 

 

You grip his palm and wrist, feel his words soothe an ache you never realised you had, “You think so?”

 

He smiles but it doesn’t really reach his eyes, the haunted look in them gleans the edges of it, “They never truly go away, but with time, they have less of a hold on you.” 

 

Sam has spent so much of his time helping you through your own shit, you so often forget that he has his own stuff, too. He faces his own demons and own nightmares, turns to no one for that support on days he can’t feel the ground beneath him. You sit there, in subdued awe and filling to the brim with gratefulness that you get to know this man and get to call him a friend, both of you sitting with clutching fingers and heavy smiles across the breakfast bar. 

 

It’s then that Bucky walks in, freezes mid-step when he sees you like he might say something, glances down to those hands still across the table and then continues passed, ducking his head and shielding his eyes from you with that hair of his. You snatch your hand back from Sam’s in an instant, trying not to think about why you felt the need to or why Bucky’s jaw clenched in that half-second before he shielded himself from view. Sam’s raised eyebrows tell you that he’ll be asking questions later but for you, he mercifully says nothing, simply continues to eat away at Mount Pancake with comfortable ease. 

 

“Morning, Bucky.” You offer into the now weighted silence, teeth tugging on your bottom lip enough to tear at the skin.

 

He turns then, forced movements and gives you a smile, not the one you’ve become so fond of but a pained sort of smile, “Morning.” 

 

He pulls a mug out and tips himself some coffee, face carefully neutral and practised precise movements as he moves carefully around the kitchen area. It’s the first time you see his neutral face for the mask it is, notice the edges of his mouth and the tightness around his eyes, wonder how you ever thought of this as his no emotion face in the first place. It has emotion if you're looking, you just don’t know what emotion he’s hiding. He gives you one last look before he heads to his usual spot. His shoulders sag when he sits, curl in on him in a way you haven’t seen in a while. You feel that dull ache in your chest again, the one you're desperately trying to ignore. 

 

“We just gonna pretend like that wasn’t a whole thing?” Sam asks now that Bucky's out of earshot but that doesn't stop you from shushing him in a panic. 

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” You say, stare intently at that last pancake on your plate and cut away the curves of it. Then cut away some more. 

 

“That’s why you are shushing me then, right?” He smirks, reaching out to grab your plate from you, stopping you from ruining the pancake any further with your nervous cutting, “I could just go ask him…”

 

“Alright, smartass. That’s enough of that.” You shoot him a glare and consider how you might explain the weird tension and the weird reaction, not ready to hear an outside opinion of whats went down between you and Bucky, a small part of you not ready to ruin it with sense and logic. “We kissed.”

 

“You fucking what?” He definitely wasn’t expecting that and the number of octaves his voice climbs is staggering, your hand shooting out to press against his mouth and pinch his lips as you shush him again. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Sam. Don’t you know what shush means?” You whisper at him, “Keep your voice down.” 

 

“Well, I didn’t expect you to drop  _ that  _ bomb on me.” He whispers back, that easy smile replaced with the confusion and concern you were expecting, “You wanna explain or should I start guessing?”

 

“Stop being so dramatic. It’s not a big deal.” You say, can’t help but glance over at him to check he’s still over at his perch on the couch, “The other night, we got locked in the weird room with all the switchboards and shit, okay? And so we talked for a bit, everything was fine until he saw my scars. I guess I’ve been good at keeping them out of sight for now and well, he freaked out. I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

“So you kissed him?” He asks, incredulous tone unwavering and it solidifies the decision to not tell him the rest.

 

“Yes.” You say again, chew on your bottom lip a bit before adding, “It made sense at the time, okay?”

 

He makes a noise like he disagrees, looks over your shoulder with narrowed eyes, a lingering look at Bucky like he's analysing or planning, you can’t quite tell. 

 

“Look, it’s not a thing, okay? It’s a nothing. A non-issue.” 

 

He rolls his eyes at your forced flippant tone, “A non-issue that had you whipping your hands off me like I was 200 degrees.”

 

“Just some minor… weirdness. I’ll clear the air today, it’ll be fine.” You try to sound confident, sure, like there’s not other option but to believe it. You fail. 

 

Sam looks at you for a long minute and the silence is too loud, the need to hear his advice is stifling and pushes right up against the need to keep those moments untainted. It's entirely unbearable. “I just think your playing with fire,” He says finally, “It’s messy.” 

 

“Look Sam, I promise it’s not. It was just a distraction, there’s no feelings.” The words feel a little hollow when you say them and you almost want to take them back, because really, between you and Bucky there was  _ only  _ feelings.

 

“If you say so, marshmallow.” He looks unconvinced, “But remember you can talk to me.” 

 

You smile, sudden and grateful, “I know, Sam.” The secrets you didn’t tell balance on the edge of you smile. 

 

\------------

 

The hours tick by in seconds, a blur of movement and polite nods as you sit in the same spot, thinking and rethinking about what to say to Bucky. Be honest with him, Sam had said. 

 

Honest.

 

The truth. What exactly was the truth? Did you regret what happened? No, you didn’t. Truthfully, you couldn’t explain  _ what  _ happened. How your mutual pain had evolved in the moment to a mutual pleasure. How it had somehow healed and simultaneously carved a new hole in you. The never ending loop of old guilt and new guilt. 

 

Messy. Ha!

 

The sole of your shoes protest as you rub it against the chair leg for the 80th time, the noise enough to stumble in through that thinking and push you towards action. The ache in your back tells you exactly how long you’ve been sitting there, your muscles sing for every single second. The path to Bucky’s room feels alien, like the path to regret or some other feeling that you can’t place. It’s a distracted sort of thing, like walking into a room and suddenly forgetting why you did. If that feeling had a physical representation, it would be this corridor here in front of you with the ominous door at the end. (The door is actually fine, as friendly looking as doors can be.)  The walls wail and the floorboards creak, or at least they do in your mind where the looming conversation is starting to feel like a jump-scare in a horror movie. You reach the door, hesitate on the knock and end up tapping a nail against the frame, the smallest version of a tap, a nothing noise. Oh well, you think, he’s obviously not here.  _ Coward _ , your subconscious spits. 

 

Just as your about to tuck tail and retreat, the door swings inwards and reveals Bucky with a very unsurprised look on his face. Did he- did he really hear that tap? 

 

“Oh, um, hi.” You say, and then helpfully add, “I was just about to knock.”

 

He gives you a look like he knows that’s not true and you start to wonder if there's secret surveillance on the door that can somehow hear people's thoughts, “You wanna come in?”

 

“Huh? Oh, yes. Sure. Ok.” Great work, you sound a little deranged. You shuffle past him and into the room, do a half glance around but try not to look like your looking. He gestures towards the couch and you gladly sit, anything to not be standing around so awkward, trying not to be curious. 

 

“Can I get you something to drink?” He asks politely but you don’t miss the way he looks just left of yours eyes. 

 

“A glass of water would be great, thanks.” You smile at him, wait till his back is turned before you greedily look around, snatch up all the details as fast as your eyes will let you like they might disappear, like the details will vanish as soon as you say what you need to. You eyes snag on a box near the opposite wall, files and folders haphazardly sticking out, a few photographs peaking between the pages. Too soon, he returns with the glass and notices you looking at the box. He face turns tight as he sits beside you, looks at the box himself for a few seconds before he finally says, “It’s my past.” 

 

It becomes clear then, what’s contained in those files, who those photographs are. You ache again, for him, for you. The constant dull ache with new carved edges. You’re all at once curious and terrified to know if there’s a file with your face on it in that box. He finally looks at you, eyes steady and resigned, like he's waiting for...something.

 

“I figured we should talk.” You start, and then stop because you don’t know where to begin, how to clear this.

 

“We should.” He agrees, sets down his own mug and sighs heavily, “I… I was having a hard time that day, and it was a little...overwhelming.” He looks at his hands as he says this, like it cost him something to say it, “I know I was out of line. I’m sorry for that.”

 

You take a second to measure your response, “I’m a big girl, Bucky. I can say no if I don’t want to do something.” You watch him swallow the words and their meaning, see his head incline and his shoulders sag just a bit, “I think we both can understand a bit of that difficultness and that makes us react a bit differently to each other than we would the others.”

 

He nods again, “I guess that makes sense.”

 

“It was a reaction,” You continue, “Not a very smart one, but not one I necessarily regret.” He smiles wryly at that, letting a little relief color his face. 

 

“So, we’re okay?” He asks, wringing his hands a little but given his usual aversion to showing his emotions, it’s like he's practically screaming his anxiety at you. 

 

“Absolutely.” Try to let it show in your smile, “We can’t overthink it. I, uh, think I need this friendship with you.” The second part you admit a little quieter, a truth even you didn’t know until you said it.

 

“Yeah? Me, too.” He says, quieter still. Small smiles mirror on your faces, the relief of it all clear in the color of them. You stay like that for a minute, a few more, letting his presence sooth in waves over that nervous, pained energy you’ve been carrying today. “Oh, I have something for you.” He disappears before your face catches up to the confusion.

 

He hands you a book, “I was in a great little bookstore yesterday and saw this. Thought you’d like it. You’ve not read it, have you?”

 

You blink at him a few times before you turn it over in your hands and read the title. The Song of Achilles. “Oh my god, Bucky! I’ve been wanting to read this for so long. How did you know?” 

 

He smiles that smile, the one you’ve grown so fond of, “I didn’t exactly know. I spotted that last book you read and some kid pointed out. Said if I liked that series, then I’d love this.” He radiates all that kind hope of the gesture, it suits him. 

 

“Thank you, Bucky. This was really nice of you.” 

 

“You can stay, if you want, and read it. I was gonna read one I bought for myself anyway.” 

 

“Ok, that sounds pretty great.” You say, because it does. It’s rare to find someone with a shared comfortability in spending time without forced interaction. He retrieves his own book from what you assume is his bedroom and flops down on his chair, legs flung over the arm of of it and flips through the pages. You watch him for a few seconds, silently delight in the relaxed look on his face and take one those mental snapshots the keep this one for later. Eventually, you tuck your legs under you on the couch and open your book to begin, a soft smile playing at the edges of your mouth. You don’t get further than the first page before Bucky breaks the silence.

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

“Of course.” 

 

“You and Sam. Are you…?” It takes a second to realise the implication and you blink at him in surprise, think back to this morning when he walked in and understand where he found his way there. 

 

“No, I'm not with Sam.” You say, and then you don't know why it feels important to clarify, “I'm not with anybody.” 

 

He nods, looks at you with those glittering eyes, the blue in them sucks up all the air in the room till your throat feels a little tighter. You look until you can’t possibly look anymore, the unsaids getting too close to being said and dart your eyes back to the pages before you, lose a lot of minutes rereading the same paragraph until the air begins to fill your lungs again. 

 

Sams words from earlier whisper hauntingly in your ear.  _ It’s messy. _

Well, shit. 


	11. Part Eleven

_ Dead Eyes _

 

_ Pleading Eyes _

 

_ Your there, like always, in the room. That room. _

 

_ There's no bindings this time, nothing to keep you in place. Just a table and him, in the corner.  _

 

_ Waiting. Watching.  _

 

_ Your face on a picture calls from the table. You reach for the file but he snatches it from you first. Stuffs it into a box full of faces and files.  _

 

_ “You can’t.” He says, begs. “You can’t see.” _

 

_ The screaming starts. _

 

It takes a few minutes to shake off the nightmare, like it usually does, sitting in the dark letting your eyes adjust and your heart rate slow. You can’t help but wonder on this new shape they are taking, the first without violence and the first you’ve ever not been bound. It was that feeling of being bound that still made it difficult to wear watches and seatbelts. It was a vastly welcome change, but still, it made you wonder. Once you are dressed, you find Bucky waiting in that corner of the lounge, book in hand and two coffees on the table in front of him. He smiles as you approach, the kind that writes its own lyrics and you tuck your chin to keep from grinning right back. 

 

“Morning.” He says, pushes one of the cups to you and busies himself making room for you on the couch.

 

“Morning,” You reply, and then add “Thank you for this.” Warmth floods your mouth as you happily take a gulp, and then another, ignoring the burn in your throat and the hum of your teeth. 

 

“Did you sleep okay?” He asks, and you know what he’s really asking _. Did you dream of me again? _

 

“Yes. Better than ever.” You lie, only it wasn’t really a lie. You were sleeping better than ever, sometimes even dreamless. Not last night, but still. 

 

“Me, too.” He says before you can ask, eyes and smile lingering a few more seconds than the last. 

 

You had spent most of your life walking the wires edge, dancing carefully along for one reason another. Always with one goal, stay up, stay alive. It’s possibly for this reason, that the newest edge you danced along with Bucky did not seem all that dangerous to you, being used to the life threatening ones of your missions, your life. Or more truthly, everything with Bucky felt inherently dangerous, and so this other danger did not even register as a two on the scale. Feet shaped to the wire from years of walking it. 

 

So, that day passed. And then another. Softly, like the first leaves of autumn, in such a way that you never really noticed until you looked down one day and they were just there. Mornings spent side by side on the couches, lost in your respective books with the occasional lingering look, the small smiles that bordered that edge between polite and intimate. Sometimes, the others join you, sometimes they don’t. It’s always you two, though, constant, reliable. Today, your mind wanders a little, still lingering on that not-nightmare and thinking about that box in Bucky’s room that may or may not contain a file on you. 

 

It must show, because it isn’t long before Bucky breaks the silence and asks, “Are you okay?”

 

“Oh, uh, yes. Totally fine.” Did you sound guilty?

 

“You seem distracted,” He says, and then adds as though to prove his point, “You’ve been on that same page for 20 minutes.” He doesn’t pry, not on the days you're quiet and lost or the days where the weight’s hang a little lower and yet, here, today, he pushing a little. Urging something from you, something past polite smiles and nods. 

 

“I just...Can I ask you something?” This book was never getting read unless you just asked, sated the curiosity. 

 

He closes his own book and turns toward you, “Of course.” 

 

“That box, in your room…” You begin, watch his hesitantly guarded face, “Is there a file for me?”

 

He pauses, measures his own response, all to aware of the wire you both ignore, “No, there’s not.”

 

“No?” You chew on your lip trying to decide if you can ask the next part, “Can I ask why not?” 

 

He looks at you, wary, like he’s deciding what truth you might want to hear or what he can stand to tell you, “I don’t need a file to remember what I did to you.”

 

“Oh.” You say, helpfully, unable to blink or breathe incase the wire snaps. 

 

“I’m sorry.” He says, almost like a reflex now, apologising again for what he perceives as making you uncomfortable when in reality you were feeling something else entirely. In reality, your heart breaks a little for him, because you know how difficult it is to relive those memories. 

 

“You don’t- I’m not… Aren’t you tired of being sorry?” You finally ask, wondering about that endless loop of guilty and pain and apologies that he’s stuck in. 

 

“I don’t see how that’s my right.” He glances away, back at you long enough to see the ache and then away again. 

 

“At some point, Bucky, you’re gonna have to forgive yourself.” You look long enough for him to process and then meet your eyes, hope that you convey what you haven’t said.  _ Like I forgive you.  _ He nods, once and sharp, a strained smile before turning back to the haven of his books. He stays like that, a few seconds, minutes but turns back to you, his own question burning a path from his eyes to his mouth.

 

“Why do you want to see it? The file, I mean.” 

 

“I don’t, not really. It’s just… I only know what I remember.” You begin, try to name this curious hunger inside you, “I guess I always feel like I can’t really heal from something I don’t know the details of. Hell, I don’t even know where I was.” 

 

“Is that important?” He asks, not unkindly, but simply because he’s trying to understand.

 

“Some days it feels the most important, some days it’s just noise.” Today was a day where the details felt important. This tenuous hold on normal and even more tenuous grip on this friendship forming out of the smoke of pain, well, the details might be the thing to make you lose your grip. They might be the thing that makes you grip tighter. 

 

“Didn’t you ever ask Steve?” He tilts his head ever so slightly, like he’s wondering why it’s the thing you’d ask him but not the thing you’d ask Steve. After all, Steve did rescue you. 

 

“No.” You pause, give his question some thought, “I guess I’m not really sure why. I suppose, if I’m being honest, I pretended I’d dealt with it. That it was behind me. It was easier that way, to put it in a box and move on.” 

 

His mouth forms a thin line, “Until I showed up.” 

 

You nod, because it’s true, “Yes, but I’m glad you did.”

 

“You are?” He asks, still doubting his place here and how you might feel about it. The sound of those two words laced with that hope barrels straight to your chest. 

 

“I might never have given myself the chance to heal properly, otherwise.” You explain, and the before you can think too hard, “Plus, I got to meet you. The real you.”

 

He smiles then, at the mention of the real him, the oceans within his eyes doing nothing to drown the carefully contained joy. The notion that he’s been seen, that he’s something other than the Soldier, or the Friend, or even the Victim. There it is again, those wounds that match yours, those so specific scars that are somehow reflected in his eyes and face, change you from a You to a We. It’s the kind of smile that makes the wire feel razor sharp against your feet. Bucky looks away first, unaware of the steps you’ve taken along that wire, or perhaps even all too aware and maybe taking his own steps too. You watch him for a few more seconds, watch the way he tucks his hair behind his ears and pulls the strands a little further than they can stretch. 

 

“Hey Buck, you got a minute?” Steve's voice interrupts your thoughts and you glance away from Bucky and back to your coffee, wondering if Steve saw you staring at Bucky and then wondering why you care. “Morning, Y/N.” 

 

“Hey Steve. No bags to ruin today?” You say, forever reliant on sarcasm to mask...well..  _ everything _ . 

 

Steve grins, “I’ve been banned from the gym till they order in more durable equipment.”

 

“And I should think so. I tried to go down yesterday and practice my new boxing skills but all the damn bags were busted.” You grin right back at him.

 

“New skills, huh? Someone been teaching you?” He asks, unaware of the implications of that innocent question. Do you tell him? It feels private...but is it weirder to not tell him. 

 

“Oh, uh, yeah. Bucky was showing me some stuff.” The memory of the last time you were in the gym comes flooding back and you almost choke with the effort not to let it show on your face. If Steve notices this, he says nothing. He does, however, frown for just a second before smoothing his face out and back to his easy smile. He has thoughts about it, that much is clear. 

 

“Oh yeah? He tell you he used to box back in the day?” He looks between you now, making you tuck even further. You carefully avoid looking at Bucky, for no reason at all, of course. 

 

“He might have mentioned it...something about having to learn to keep a little punk outta trouble?” He laughs at that, looks a little sheepish too and it makes you wonder what kind of trouble Steve used to get himself into. When you chance a glance at Bucky, he’s smiling too, at you and the corners of his mouth have you wondering if it’s possible to hear a smile.

 

They leave you there, desperately reading and rereading that same page as you hear the echo of their laughs play on a loop in your head. It isn’t long before you give up the pretence of reading altogether, simply pull out your phone and flip through the various social media apps on your phone and think about anything other than that box. 

 

Bucky unintentionally struck you with a thought, the formings of an idea and now that it was there, it was intensely difficult to ignore. The lack of willpower for stupid ideas had been known to get you into trouble in the past. It’s that complete and utter lack of willpower (or self preservation) that has you up and moving, a sudden franticness to your actions now that a decision had been made. It takes less time than you think to get to your destination, the mainframe that Tony built to store the teams important information, stats, mission reports. It takes even less time to locate the mission report you seek, dutifully completed by Steve himself.

 

You open it hastily, flip through the bulk of the details and then hesitate at the first picture of you. The girl staring up at you is a shadow, a broken thing, barely human. Unrecognisable. It’s jarring, to see yourself that way, having spent to much of your life being strong, brave...a fighter. The girl in the picture has given up. Your thumb moves absently over your scars as you move through the pictures, the medical reports documenting your injuries when in reality the most broken things were the ones the pictures cannot show. Your palms flatten on the screen at the next page, the heat from the display sinking slowly into the muscle and adding to the rising ache from the inside, the two feelings meeting in the middle and leaving little room to discern between them. 

 

There it is. The place. 

 

The room.

 

The horror of it and all its black, terrible edges swirl on the screen, laughs at you, mocks you from it’s place inside your memories. You breathe deep, and then again, go to email yourself the details and get distracted by a detail, reading it again to be sure and wondering how it is you missed it, how you never knew how Steve found you and never thought to ask. It’s important, you think, but not right now, and so you finish emailing the details and turn, head straight for the door.

 

Straight to hell. 


	12. Eleven and a Half

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smallest part, tiny, not an actual chapter. Just a little glimpse at what’s to come, or has already happened. 
> 
> Don’t yell at me. I love you.

Bucky tries to concentrate on what Steve is saying, he really does, but his mind keeps involuntarily drifting back to you, back to that conversation earlier today and every time it does his anxiety levels increase just a little bit more until his fingers twitch with the effort.

 

He tries.

 

But he knows. He can feel it.

 

Something is wrong.

 

Steve gives up when they are 20 mins out from the base, gives Bucky one last frown and shoulder pat before leaving him to his twitching. Bucky knows he should say something, anything, so that Steve doesn’t worry but all the spare spaces in his consciousness are eaten up but the dread.

 

He knows.

 

It’s a mile for each step, the startling need to check on you overriding the knowledge that it’s not his place to do so, that he shouldn’t be tracking you down yet  _again_ , fuelling his need to know that you were OK. He ignores the voice in the back of his mind that whispers cruel reminders that he might very well be the last person you want to see, that everything with him is an effort, the words like venomous silk in his ear and down his spine.

 

He knows.

 

The couch is empty, the kitchen is empty, your room is  _empty_. His heart rate joins his fingers in the anthem of unease, the beats getting louder with each passing second he stands staring at your empty mug and abandoned book. He remembers how you folded in on yourself, how your eyes shone with a haunted determination. He saw the memories in your irises.

 

He leaves without a word to Steve or the others, just the dread in his bones, his bike and the unrelenting need to get there. To get to you.

 

He  _knows_.


	13. Twelve

The door is green. Not  _ green  _ green, but a dull, weathered green that looks like it was probably discounted in the hardware store to begin with and has seen many, many storms since. Your not sure why this is the immediate thought you have when you arrive, but it is. The door, the building, it’s all unassuming, nondescript, borderline boring. It’s not the cavern of evil you imagined it would be, there's no blood stains or harrowing screams coming from inside. It’s logical, obviously, but you can’t help but feel a bit surprised that it doesn’t reflect all the damage it’s done to you. That it’s still just a door.

 

There’s a bite in the air that dances along you cheek like the clouds know and match their mood to yours. You hesitate, do one last check to see if this is what you want, one last search in your soul and find no resistance, find only the need to clear the particular wall from inside you and deal with whatever the consequences are. 

 

You push against the door and find it locked, it takes you less than a minute to sweet talk the lock into opening and step inside, pulling the door behind you even though that in itself makes you feel a little claustrophobic. Inside is much of what you expect, empty halls and empty rooms, peeling wallpaper and scuffed floorboards. You don’t recognise anything except from the pictures in the report but then again, it’s not like you got the grand tour. Nah, you got the pleasure of the basement alone. 

 

You find the door to the basement and open it, swing it with a little more force than you mean to and jump when it hits the wall with a thud. The jolt sends your heart into a sprint, or it was already sprinting, your not sure but it throws itself backwards and clings to the bags of your rib cage. The rickety wooden steps lead down into the dark, a musty darkness that breathes and echos like it’s alive. You ignore the tremble in your fingers as you take the first step, then the next, each one filling your feet with stone, the weight tugs at your ankles like you wading through your own sorrow and its leaden. It’s rivalled only by the fire in your belly, the rage mixing in with that pain and forcing you further into that living darkness. It takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust when you reach the bottom, and whilst they do you notice the smell. The staleness of the smell, the undisturbed feeling like maybe nobody else has been back, maybe you were the last one here. Was it possible to smell despair?

 

The darkness breathes and you breathe with it, step forward and your knees hit against something,  _ hard _ . You stumble backward until your back is against the wall, fingers thumbling for the torch attached to your belt that probably should have used already, the light pierces the darkness in a way that makes it seem so much darker. It shows a chair, tipped on its side and covered in dust. You know that chair, know how the grains feel against your skin, know how one of the legs has a chunk where it was tipped with weight, know there’s crusted blood on top of crusted blood at the back where fingernails turned ragged against its edges. The fear returns, that cold, familiar fear that made its home inside your bones, taunting and slithering back like it was never really gone. How easily it fits back where it always was, how easily you let it take those long months of fighting and growing, how easily you let all that progress go. If the fear had a voice, a sound, it would be a slow, cruel laughter. 

 

You right the chair, an inexplicable need to truly see what was taken from you, to see the bits of you that were left behind. It brings you to your knees, desperate, cold, broken. 

* * *

 

 

_ He stands in the shadows, his face devoid of any feeling, just watching, always watching. His eyes are cold, dead even, like he’s just as steel and soulless as the knife he holds. You stare right back, refusing to balk at him, refusing to cower. The bonds on your right chafe against the already angry skin, dimmed only by the pain in your face, chest, the product of hours of “interrogation” at the Soldiers hands, him and the asshole beside him who does all the talking. The dark room doesn’t his identity as well as he thinks. Perhaps he doesn’t care and that scares you more, tells you exactly what they plan to do with you. _

 

_ “This can all be over.” Pierce says, the false concern in his tone making your lip curl, “Tell me where Fury and Rogers are hiding.”  _

 

_ “And I suppose I get to walk out of here after, right?” You say, and then if only to annoy him further, you add “Pierce.” As good as signing your own death warrant, you know, but you can’t help but want to fuck with him a little before you do. His jaw clenches and you know you’ve hit a nerve, he steps forward into the light and lets you see him, you almost smirk before his hand comes down hard on your cheek, the shock of it jarring your teeth together and forcing your head to snap back.  _

 

_ “Perhaps you need a reminder, agent, as to who you stand against.” He nods to the Soldier who stalks towards you, presses his knife instantly under your jaw, “No, not yet. I have something else in mind.” And just like that, he brands you. Taints your flesh with the words you hate, takes what little you had left and destroys it with just five simple letters. H.Y.D.R.A. Simple, awful, permanent. “Where is your Captain now, agent? Or are you not important enough to warrant a rescue? No, that’s for the real players, the people who matter.” _

 

_ The pain is never ending, it’s been minutes or hours or days, all you know is the pain. Days and nights no longer exist, it’s only pain and more pain. His eyes are always dead, never meeting yours, always looking toward the agony. Your arm is molten, strips of fire where there was once flesh, the sweat drops down your chin and yet your body is wracked with tremors, eyes heavy with exhaustion or infection, or both. Pierce has gone now, everything is quiet except the roaring in your ears, the loudest silence of all.  _

 

_ “Please.” You whisper, beg, throat hoarse from screaming, all promises of bravery long since forgotten, “Please don’t.”  _

 

_ He says nothing, face never changing. Just the same dead eyes and the same cruel knife. You don’t hear the sounds of your bones breaking over the ringing in your ears, the smallest of mercy’s from a god you’ve long since given up on.  _

 

_ The dark starts to welcome you, raise it’s hands every time you return. Faces you don’t remember when you’re awake smile at you in the abyss, murmur gentle promises and issue threats, the distinction between dreams and reality has blurred, you are no longer able to tell the difference between your own thoughts and reality.  _

_ The pain lessens, your blood turns thick and slow, the sad steady beat of your heart as it tries not give up even though you have. Is this what death feels like? Just fading away into nothing, alone and broken on the floor, still tied to the chair that you tried to break free of. A failed attempt that left you on the ground, dead eyes seeing but not seeing, a declaration from the living that you should be left to lie there, a nod of understanding from the dead. It’s been days or years since anyone last came down so you know they have truly left, and left you here to die.  _

 

_ Your eyes flicker against the light, the familiar creak of the stairs as someone descends and you hope, pray, that it’s time. That they’ll end this misery, finally. The bonds are snapped free, your arms hitting the floor with a thud, no fight left in you to do much against the arms that hawl you up from that floor, every step another wave of agony. Not so dead eyes meet yours as you are propped against a wall, words that you can’t hear said, something pressed into your hand that you grip for a second before your fingers fail and it falls to the floor. You watch the shadows fade, get smaller and then disappear before the darkness comes for you again, the final time, you think, hope.  _

* * *

 

The memories assault you, strip away every layer, tears away every piece of you until your raw, exposed. It’s like you never escaped from this room, you’ve just carried it around with you all these days and months. A weight, a sea. The shame bores down more than anything, because for everything you feel about this place, shame is the thing that haunts you in the night. Shame for how easily you gave up, how ready you were to die here on this filthy floor, alone, forgotten. That’s what you carry everyday with you, not what you endured, not the scars and the pain, no. You carry the knowledge of your weakness, that you welcomed the escape of death with no regard for who you were leaving behind. That’s what scares you most of all. And so the memories assault, and so does the voices. Steve, Wanda,  _ Sam _ . Oh, Sam, if he knew. 

 

Except, there’s another voice. A quiet but defiant voice that demands to be heard, that whispers to your heart. Tells stories of kindness and strength, of long nights and early mornings, of every single step you’ve taken since that day. Reminds you that despite it all, despite that lowest of lows, you still stand. You fight for every single day, the long, never ending fight for your own soul. The words wrap tight around your heart and your let their roots take, no longer willing to be complicit in the undoing of your progress. No, you would not fall again. Would not succumb to the fear, to the shame. 

 

As if called to you by his voice in your head, Bucky stands at the now open door, face stricken and chest heaving like he ran all the way here. He barely makes it to the bottom of the stairs before your in his arms, clinging to the back of his jacket like you might float away without it to anchor you to the earth. He grips you tight, holding on for as long as it takes, just waiting for you to be OK. He’s always waiting for you to be OK. 

 

Finally, you pull back, he looks at you with soft, sorrowful eyes and lifts his fingers to gently wipe the tears you didn't even realise were falling. “I'm sorry.” He says.

 

“I know.” You reply, and then all of a sudden you are struck by this image, both of you crouched here in this place of your shared past and secrets, know exactly what it must have cost him to come here for you and get lost in that wave of guilt again, “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

 

He says nothing, only looks at you with more pain than one person should be able to stand, then finally he says low like a confession, “You know, Y/N. I don’t think I ever want to hear you apologise to me ever again.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask, not angry but curious. “That it was you who saved me.”

 

His jaw twitches and fresh pain sweeps over his face, “I didn’t save you.”

 

“You came back for me. Called 911 from a cell that you left with me so they’d find me. Without either of those, I’d have been dead before Steve and Sam found me.” 

 

He lets you drive the bike back home, offering a little control in the only way he can, clings to your sides and says nothing when you deliberately take the long route. The streets pass in a blur, colours all melting together as your thoughts trip over and over. The journey, the memories, that voice. That wires edge almost cleaving it’s way through you, gone, leaving you to free fall into oblivion. 


End file.
